The Wrong Idea
by Coal15
Summary: A series of Gallavich scenes told from Mickey's POV. Both from the show, and scenes filling in the gaps. I've gone beyond the point of Mickey fleeing to Mexico. As per series canon Ian does ditch him at the border, but don't worry. Everything comes up Gallavich eventually.
1. The Wrong Idea

**So, I have decided to make this a multi-chapter project. Gave this chapter a little polish while I was at it. No major changes, just minor language tweaks. Enjoy!**

 _Jesus CHRIST!_ I think when I feel what turns out to be a tire iron nudging my back. _Can I please just take a nap without some annoying assho-huh?_

"I want the gun back, Mickey."

"Gallagher?" _The f_ _reckle-assed fuck's got balls, I'll give him that._

"The gun!"

 _No way._ "All right." _You're gonna regret sneaking into my house, you ginger piece of shit._ I reach for the drawer, figuring it'll be enough to get the stupid kid to drop his guard. I'm right. He's totally unprepared when I grab him and throw him into the wall by my bed. Turns out though, the scrawny fuck adapts fast. And he's stronger than he looks. _You aint gonna give up easy here, are you?_ Our scuffle moves from one side of the room to the other. I assume Gallagher's gonna run away pissing himself once I got in a few good punches, but no. He's determined. We end up back on the bed, and by now my pulse is racing. In no universe did I imagine kicking Ian Gallagher's ass would be even remotely difficult-which means I _have to_ win. Finally I wrench the tire iron out of his hand, get him pinned underneath me, and swing back fast, ready to crack open the motherfucker's skull. But then I realize something, and freeze.

 _Fuck!_ I'm getting hard, and there's no way Gallagher hasn't noticed, his face is right between my legs. No one's gonna miss a partial sprouting up _literally_ right under their nose. But before I have time to panic the look on his face goes from fear to . . . _Oh . . . . oh!_ He knows I want him, he obviously wants me, and I don't give a shit anymore about winning the fight. I've only ever been fucked twice before, and it felt great both times-though I played it off like I was only letting the guy do it as an alternative to owing him a crazy stupid amount of money for several lost guns I was supposed to sell. Anyhow, taking it up the ass showed up in my jerk-off fantasies pretty much all the time, and Gun Dude just happened to be my first chance to try it out. Nothing about him in particular appealed to me aside from his having a cock.

This situation with Gallagher is different. It's like I can feel the whole room heat up as we stare at each other. I could easily beat him up just for the sake of follow through, then go out and pick up some other random guy, but I don't even consider the option. I want _him_ inside me. Him or no one. I drop the tire iron and we both get to work taking our clothes off. _'What's happening here?'_ woulda been a stupid fucking question for either of us to ask, so I'm relieved as hell when he doesn't. Just lets me help him get naked without a word. "Condoms are in the drawer," I say as I get on all fours, hoping to god Gingershit doesn't wanna be topped.

"Lube?"

"Fuck," I hiss. "Don't have any." I'm breathing heavy, hard as hell, and seriously considering letting him go bareback on me.

"S'okay," he says with a lopsided grin I refuse to acknowledge as adorable. He picks his coat up off the floor and reaches into a hidden interior pocket. "I got us covered."

 _Secret slut?_ I wonder as he withdraws a small bottle of lube.

"What?" Gallagher shrugs. "I can't fuck guys at home, so the basic necessities gotta travel with me."

 _Smart plan._ "All the fuckin' time? You're gross." I scoff at him. Damn if I'm gonna let this guy walk outta my house thinking I'm impressed with anything but his cock.

He climbs onto the bed behind me and I try not to shiver, or sigh too loud when his hand runs down my back, and I feel his breath close to my ear. "At least I'm a great fuck."

I moan way too loud when he says those words. _GodDAMN, the confidence on this kid!_ Sure, Gun Dude got me off, but he never really turned me on, or even tried to, not like this. _Have I EVER been turned on like this?_ "AH!" I gasp as a slick finger thrusts into my ass and starts moving around.

"Yeah," Gallagher chuckles, thrusting again. "I figured _Mickey Milkovich_ wouldn't want it gentle." Thrust. Thrust. Second finger. Thrust. Curl. Stretch. Thrust.

No hesitation, no bullshit. Like he's taken everything he knows about my personality and translated it to sex. Yup, this obnoxious motherfucker is 100% aware how much I fucking want what he's doing, and the way he's doing it. I try to downplay how good it is, how hot he's got me, but it's a pathetic lost cause. I shiver, moan, I can't even stop myself from bucking against him. Suddenly his fingers leave, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against me. I'm so ready. So, so fucking ready. But every time I think he's about to start, he doesn't. It's just a little push forward, a tease, and he eases back again. _SaynothingSaynothingSaynothing!_ "Come oooooonnnnnnn," I hear myself warble. _Goddamnit, Milkovich!_ I tell myself I need to shut the hell up and act like a man, but I already know I won't. I'm gonna keep begging. Only I don't get the chance. Intense, electric pleasure and the the fucking perfect dose of pain explode inside me as I take all of him in one aggressive thrust. Fast as I can I grab a pillow and bury my face in it to muffle the weird fuck-drunk noises pouring out of my mouth.

"Quiet the fuck down!" Gallagher growls, his nails dig into my hips. "Or I'll pull out and cum on your back!"

 _Shit, it can't end like that!_ "Don't," I rasp (quietly), gritting my teeth. "P, pl, please," I whisper, "just-oh yeah! _Yeah! AH!"_ Now it's _on._ I'm getting exactly what I want, and it's so fucking good I don't even care that I had to whine for it like a needy bitch. I'm still tight around him, breathing deep to stay relaxed and adjust to how he fills me. All the while Gingershit thrusts away, deep and demanding. I know I like cock more than pussy, that isn't news to me, but I had no idea it could drive me out of my fucking mind like this! _Gun Dude was a joke compared to you, Gallagher!_

When his cock finds my prostate, my last two brain cells pack up and leave town. I clutch a pillow with one hand, and press my face into whatever garbage material it's made of to muffle myself as I jerk off in time to Gallagher's rhythm. I want this part to last a long time. The orgasm part of sex is always a quick thing for me, then I get to enjoy a fast crash back to earth and my shitty reality.

After the first few times I got laid, I just assumed 'afterglow' was a made-up thing. You fuck, you shoot your load, then everything feels exactly the fucking same as it did before. _'Bliss cloud' my ass. You cum, then it's over!_ So when I know it's about to happen, I close my eyes and try to lock myself in the moment. The heat, the sweat, every muscle I got going all apeshit, Gallagher still working my ass and making these great little breathy grunt noises, his hands tight on my hips. Warm cum spills over my hand, and the first thing I feel when it's over is . . . a total brain haze. I assume it's because I've still got something fun in my ass distracting me, but a minute or so later when that's over with and Gallagher settles down next to me, the warm hazy feeling is still there. _I'm in it, this is afterglow. Holy shit!_ He smiles at me, and I wonder if there's such a thing as SUPER afterglow because it literally gives me goosebumps. I hide my arms under the covers so he won't notice.

"Best fight ever." Gallagher whispers a few minutes later, again flashing a huge smile.

 _You're gonna have to hit him if he doesn't stop doing that, it's turning you into a girl!_ I shrug. "Beats a broken arm, I guess." I can almost feel him seeing through my bullshit attitude, and I have to threaten myself with violence to keep from blushing.

"Right," he rolls his eyes. "So then I guess you don't care if we ever do this again?"

I stare at the ceiling and drag my tongue along my teeth.

"Yeeeeeaaaaah," the freckled punk keeps talking, "I'm _sure_ you won't mind if this is just a one time thing." He props up on an elbow and smirks at me. "If I never, ever, _ever_ fuck you again?"

 _Okay shitwad, now you're pissing me off!_ I'm about to tell him to get his pansy ass outta my bed, but I make the mistake of looking him in the eyes first, and the words fucking _refuse_ to come out. Instead, I stammer like a baby, which makes me even more pissed off and embarrassed. But at the same time his words are like a challenge to me. A dare. _Hot._ I get an image in my mind of the two of us at the Kash and Carry. I'm on my knees, sucking his dick. "Don't be fuckin' stupid, Gallagher, obviously we're doing this again!" I'm hoping my tone makes him feel at least a little foolish. If I gotta be a helpless fucking ginger junkie over here, well, fine-but he should at least have to feel like a jackass for making me kinda admit it. Prick.

"K," he chirps. "See y'later then." He's about to step out of bed when my dad bursts in. We both freeze. He doesn't even look at us as he walks to the bathroom, but we stay still. I'm pretty sure these are the last moments of my life. Maybe Gallagher's too. I remember the tire iron and resolve to get it and swing it straight at dad's head if he tries to lay a hand on Ian. _Ian._

He says something about eggs on his way out of the room, then stops and faces us.

 _This is it. Get the tire iron!_ I yell at myself, but I can't move. Dad terrifies me too much.

"Put some clothes on, you two look like a coupla fags!" And he shuffles out.

 _Holy. Fucking. SHIT._

There's no such thing as pillow talk after a scare like that, so we get out of bed without another word. I get dressed and take the gun from the dresser. I wanna give it to him, but I'm afraid if our hands so much as touch I'll drop to my knees, and then he'll _really_ have all the power. So I toss it on the mattress instead. He looks at me with this soft, puppy-dog gaze, and I know what he's about to try. "Kiss me and I'll cut your fuckin' tongue out."

After he leaves, I decide to wait a few days before hitting him up for sex again, so he doesn't get the wrong idea about us. All attached and sentimental and shit. _At least four days._ I tell myself. _You can make it four days._ I barely last twelve hours.


	2. Breaking Rules

This thing I've got going with Gallagher, it's great, but I'm not stupid. I know someday he'll want more than I can give him. Full on gay shit. Cuddling, kissing, holding hands. Eventually he'll get sick of my bullshit and find himself a real fairy to settle down with and raise fuckin' cats. Gross. I tell myself it won't be all that bad. Plenty of ass-fuckers in the world to choose from, so what's the difference? _I'll miss him a little, yeah, but whatever._

But then I see him with that geriatric perv. I watch them from across the street. They're sitting at a table in the window, talking and laughing, looking cozy as fuck, and I _hate it._ I mean, this guy obviously isn't the type Ian would ever get serious with, but still. Just seeing him look at the silver haired cocksucker like he's someone _special._ Affectionate, comfortable. Like a guy on a _date._ And he does clearly like the guy, which makes it even worse.

 _Meanwhile, all you want is a nice young piece of ass, isn't that right?_ I think, glaring at Mr. Check Out My Hot Fucktoy. _Ian_ _could drop dead right now and you'd have his replacement lined up before dawn._ I only followed them out of curiosity, y'know to see how they acted together, but now I'm boiling inside. I've known all along that Gallagher sometimes _fucks_ other guys, and I'm not above banging the occasional drunk chick at a party or whatever. Hell, I don't own his dick, he doesn't own mine, we're cool. But what I'm just now getting through my thick fucking skull is that I really, _really_ don't want him looking that way at anyone but me. Those are _my_ happy-puppy eyes, that's _my_ flirty smile, and no, I can't hear his stupid smitten laugh from all the way across the street, but godd _amnit_ that's mine too! You have no right to them, you half-fossilized fag!

 _This is pointless, Mickey._ I tell myself. _Just go home and get drunk. Or go shooting. Or both._

Then I notice Ian and the perv get up from the table. Before I know it, they're out on the street. Strolling along, chatting, like it's the most normal thing in the world, them being together. _Me and him are_ _never gonna be like that._ I've always know it, but this is the first time I've let it really sink in. Let myself give a shit. _Huge fucking mistake!_

"Mickey?"

 _And now you gotta make conversation. Great. Awesome. Shoulda gone home, dipshit! Better yet, your dumb ass never should have followed them here in the first place! Christ, trying THINKING sometime!_

At this point I'm just hoping the Fossil doesn't give me any reason to beat his ass, because I will take it. The slightest reason. I'm only half paying attention to the conversation, even the words coming out of my own mouth.

"Don't be rude, Ian. Invite your boyfriend back to the hotel."

 _Oh FUCK YOU!_ I wail on the guy. And while I'm at it, I make it very, _very_ clear that the bitch better not be implying I'm gay. Beyond the fact that I wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole I stole off my worst enemy, if I started doing threeways with Gallagher, he could get . . . hopeful about us. Like maybe we'll be one of those strolling, laughing couples someday. I can't break his heart like that. I need him to stay in reality, even if it does fucking suck.

It's not long before Gallagher pulls me away from the fight and we go running down the street together. I lead him down an alley. When we stop, he seems upset with me, but it only lasts a second before I have him back. Smiling at _me,_ laughing with _me._ And _fuck,_ that's all it takes to make me happy again. It's probably a bad sign in the long run, but oh well. Fuck the long run. As long as I stay in the moment, who gives a shit how much it'll hurt someday down the road.

The next time we hook up I almost break my own rule and kiss him on the mouth about a dozen times. I'm so goddamn relieved to have his hands on _me_ , and not that gross, over-groomed, gets-what-he-wants-all-the-time, entitled, ancient _prick._

Parts of him I normally skip over in favor of cock, I suddenly crave. He nuzzles my throat, I nuzzle back. He makes these fucking awesome noises when I nibble his earlobes. _Note to self: earlobes. Sensitive._ Instead of just moving down the mattress to suck his dick, I kiss and lick my way down his chest, then spend some time stroking him and running my tongue over his thighs. Every sound and move he makes? It's all _mine._ It's mine,and I can't get enough of it. If a greedy toddler had a raging sex drive? Yeah, that would be me right now.

A few days later, Gallagher brings up the Fossil.

"Hey, you know that guy you beat the shit out of at the club?"

 _Oh yippie, my favorite subject._ I'm afraid he's gonna start gushing about some cutsie, faggy moment between the two of them, but it turns out the old man wants his own fucking house robbed. _Cool. Weird, but cool. I'm in. Might even piss on his carpet just because._

Then for some reason, I say the stupidest thing possible: "I don't know what you see in that geriatric viagroid." _Great job, Milkovich, now he's gonna fucking tell you. You don't wanna know that shit!_

It's something, something, something, then: "He's not afraid to kiss me." He says it casually, but I know it means he's getting impatient. Sick of my bullshit, just like I've always known he would. I can almost hear a timer in my head start counting down to the final moment. The non-break up of our non-relationship. The best I can hope for at this point is really amazing goodbye sex.

I tell myself I won't cave in. _He's emotional enough about us as it is, you dumb fuck! One kiss and he'll probably start picking out baby names! NO! DO. NOT. KISS. HIM. EVER!_

The next day I kiss him.

 _I just need you a little bit longer, Gallagher._ I think right before I do it. _Just a little bit longer . . ._


	3. Owned

**This is a scene immediately following Mickey getting patched up after being shot in the ass.**

Two firsts in one day.

1\. Kiss a dude

2\. Get shot in the ass

 _Hell of a day,_ I think as Gallagher helps me waddle/hop to the wall and lean. The wounds are dressed, we're alone, and the vicodin has kicked in (probably a little bit more than I needed, but who doesn't love a little opiate buzz?), but it does still kinda hurt, especially if I put weight on that side. I can see Ian feels bad, like my pain is somehow his fault, so I try to lighten lighten the mood.

"Guess we won't be fuckin' for a little while, huh?" I wink at him. "Good thing you've got Doctor Perv to keep your dick busy." I still hate the guy on principle, but he did just _literally_ save my ass so I feel obligated to tolerate whatever gross bullshit thing he and Ian got going on.

"Yeeeeaaaaaah," he draws out the word as he leans on closer and closer. "I think I'm kinda done with him."

"Since when?" I ask.

"Since you decided to be okay with this." He kisses me. No tongue involved, so pretty tame, but it lasts a while. I don't really participate, just allow it to happen. He pulls back. _"Are you_ still okay with this?"

My throat goes dry. When I kissed him in van it was a spontaneous decision, and all I could think of at the time was: _it keeps him with you, fuckwit. You'll go outta your mind if you lose him now._ So he's right, it was a strategic move. _Complete_ _asshole manipulates innocent gay kid for selfish purposes. Yeah, that sounds like me._

"Mickey?! Are you still okay with this?"

There's this needy tinge to his voice, and it makes me feel guilty. Shitty as my reasons for kissing him were, I don't regret doing it one fucking bit. But I do realize I'm acting all weird and uncomfortable right now, and I know he's worried it's the gay thing weirding me out, but that's not it. Not entirely. _He's done enough worrying for one day._ I choke down my pride and tell him the stupid truth. "I, uh, y-yeah, I'm okay with-Christ, Gallagher, I'm more than okay with it! It's just . . . y'know, the thing in the van was . . ." I try for a casual shrug, but I'm pretty sure I don't pull it off. _I hate admitting this._ "I aint ever kissed on the mouth before, okay?" I say the words as fast I can. _Damn, there's his perfect fucking grin again. Love that grin._

Gallagher chuckles. "How dumb do you think I am, Mick? _Of course_ you've never made out with a guy, I just assumed you hadn't. It's nothing to be embarrassed about, I swear."

"No, I mean _anyone,_ Ian. Ever. I've fucked plenty!" I tack on that factoid as fast as I can. Important detail. "One other dude, a ton of girls. I've sucked your dick, I've eaten pussy, I've done a lotta stuff, just . . . not kissing. Not on the mouth anyway." _God this feels so fuckin awkward._ I watch his eyes, waiting for a readable reaction.

" . . . Did you never want to with anyone?" The uncertain look in his eyes actually makes me hurt.

"I don't know," I shrug, and it's sorta true. "I guess I always figured why not cut to the chase, right? We're both there to get off, and you don't need kissing to cum." I elbow him in the side and try to laugh a little. _Nope. Still awkward, Mickey. You suck._

"Look, Mickey," Gallagher takes a deep breath, and I can tell he's working out how to phrase whatever comes next, "kissing is usually about more than getting off. Kinda deeper. A-and, so, I totally get why you'd be afraid of-"

"-hey!" I cut him off, poking him in chest for emphasis. "Fuck you, I am not afraid of jack shit!"

 _Spineless liar._ I know I'm full of it. Yeah, getting off when I'm super horny works with anyone most of the time. _But you start making out with people, and you know what you're gonna find out real goddamn fast. You have no actual interest in women. You want men. You don't want women. You're a fag. Fuck you._

Gallagher says nothing. He stands perfectly still, waiting, hands against the wall on either side of me. _How is he so patient? WHY is he so patient?_

There's only a few inches space between the two of us, and the closeness messes with my head. Being close to him always messes with my head. Makes me stupid. _What if we CAN have something real? What if it's possible?_ I'm pretty sure I'll snap out of it later on and remember what the fuck my life is, but right now there's a lotta shit going on. There's the vicodin in my system, there's the way he's looking at me, and most of all there's how bad I want more. I go all in. _We can do this,_ I think, putting a hand on the back of his neck to pull him into another kiss.

I can tell right away how much Ian wants to press for more, but he doesn't, even though it's gotta be driving him nuts how slow I'm going. He holds back and lets me lead.

For a longass time it's nothing but G-rated action. A little PG touching going on, but the actual kissing? Disney movie bullshit. 8th grade dance bullshit. _Would you get the fuck over yourself, Milkovich? You're gay and you know it, so put your goddamn tongue in his mouth NOW!_ I relax my mouth, tilt my head back and to the side, and basically let him fall into me. He makes this amazing kinda whiny-like noise in his throat when his tongue slides against mine, and it makes my head swim. _Blame the vicodin,_ I think. _Either that, or he fucking owns you head to toe._

He fucking owns me head to toe. _Shit!_


	4. Crash

**The sleepover, getting caught, the aftermath.**

 _He'll be here in 45 minutes!_ I try to act like it's no big deal, Ian crashing at my place until dad gets back, but the truth is just knowing I'm gonna wake up next to him tomorrow has me feeling waaaaaaay closer to giddythan I'm comfortable with. I've literally checked myself in the mirror a bunch of times to make sure it's not completely obvious that I've basically turned into a girl. I check the time again. _43 minutes. Oh, COME ON!_

I decide to tidy up the house a little bit to distract myself. I'm not gonna bust out cleaning products or anything, just straighten up the piles of crap, and maybe sweep. Funny thing is, he and I are gonna have days and days of total privacy, we can fuck in the middle of the hallway if we want to, and what's the thing _I_ can't stop thinking about? I'm wondering how Gallagher sleeps.

 _Will he sprawl out? Hog the covers? Cuddle up to me? Fuck I hope his feet aren't cold!_ I try not to jump ahead in my mind to the first night after dad comes back and I gotta go back to sleeping alone, but it's a difficult thought to avoid. _Will a few nights of staying over be enough to make the pillows smell like him?_

I promise myself I won't tackle him and drop to my knees the second he walks in the door, and for once, I stick to it. Only by a distance of five steps, but I have a proven lack of discipline when it comes to all things Ian, so I'm counting it. Five steps in the door before I blow him. Woohoo. _Big fucking victory for me._

He moans, runs his hands through my hair, says my name over and over. I wasn't all that great at sucking dick when we first got together, but now? Shit, I could teach a goddamn class. Show those porno punks how it's done. He tells me how good my mouth feels on him. That I'm amazing. That I make him so happy. I wanna go door to door telling all my garbage neighbors I make Ian Gallagher happy. Yeah, it probably means he has the common sense of a brick, but I don't care.

I can tell from the way he's breathing and the look on his face that he's getting close. Just a few more seconds. I focus, and swallow everything. Something else I've gotten pretty good at. The taste of cum took some getting used to back when we first started this thing, but now it doesn't bother me. I'm neutral. Doesn't matter either way, semen could taste like old gym socks and I'd still tolerate it for Ian's sake. _Bitch does love his blowjobs._

"So," I smile up at him, "snacks and a movie?"

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The list of good things that have ever happened in my life could fit on a post it note, but at the top of that list, hands down, is waking up with Gallagher pressed against my back. His arm slung over me. _Check this shit out,_ I think. _I'm Mickey 'little spoon' Milkovich. Didn't see that one coming._

I roll over carefully so I don't wake him up, then I stare and stare and stare at him like he's an actual goddamn miracle. _Dammit. You're in fucking love, you stupidass fairy!_ So I'm screwed. No way around it. There's been a clock on this relationship _(relationship?!)_ since day one, and now when the countdown hits zero, it's gonna be the worst thing I've ever felt.

 _There's gotta be a way I can keep him!_ I tell myself. _Some fucking way to make dad understand._ The fantasy keeps going. _Maybe if I sit him down and explain how great I feel being with Ian? How much this matters to me? Maybe he'll be glad I'm with someone as nice as Ian._ I tell myself I'm gonna try. _First thing when dad gets back. Yeah. That night. I'll make us steaks, bust out the good tequila, then I'll steer the conversation toward . . . um . . . . how being a man means standing up for yourself, and . . . something like that. Kinda lead up to the boyfriend thing. It might work._

Ian squirms a little bit, and his eyelids start to flutter. "Hey there," he whispers, stroking my arm.

 _This is what perfect feels like._ My mind is made up. _This WILL work._

Less than four hours later it all blows up. We're both beat to shit, there's a prostitute I've never met before riding my cock, and nothing hurts worse than the look on Ian's face. He looks destroyed. Ruined. _You ruined him, Mickey. You fucking asshole!_ I can't believe I invited him to crash here. I should have known there was a chance Dad could come home early. It happens, some jobs go quicker than you think they will. _And nothing good ever lasts for you,_ I remind myself. _Selfish prick. Ian doesn't deserve this garbage. If you really loved him, you'd have broken things off ages ago, then this wouldn't be happening to him!_ I look at Ian and think of where he could be right now if not for me. Holding hands with some nice, well adjusted, out-and-proud guy. A guy who can treat him right. _Go find that guy, Ian,_ I think as I toss the hooker on the couch. _I'm nothing but a wreck._


	5. The Fix

**Events leading up to Mickey's wedding.**

I can't stand to be around dad, but I refuse to let myself run to Ian and blow smoke up his ass. He needs me the fuck out of his life. He _deserves_ to have me the fuck out of his life.

What I need is just me, with a weapon, surrounded by a bunch of shit I can wreck without anyone caring. _You're good at wrecking shit. Okay, shooting it is. Good plan._

When I hear someone climb the stairs of the crumbling old building, I hope to God it's just some random jackass. Hell, even a cop would be better than- _fuck. Fucking FUCK! Why, Ian?!_ I hate him a little bit right now. _Are you stupid or something? We're a lost cause, so just give the fuck up!_

I force myself to freeze him out. Not even look at him. Yeah, he deserves a gentle, civilized break up conversation, but I'd have to look at him to do it, and that's a risk I can't afford. I'll look at him, he'll say something sweet and hopeful, and I'll throw myself right back down the rabbit hole. I'll cling to him like a motherfucker until eventually it all explodes again. _Don't you dare let that fucking happen Mickey, he's been through enough! . . . I want him so bad . . . I want him so bad . . ._

"I can't stop thinking about it. What happened . . .

I don't need to see his eyes to know what they look like right now. Concerned and supportive, all that shit. Thinking he's here to support his injured boyfriend. _You don't have a boyfriend, Gallagher,_ I think, firing off a few shots. _You never did. You had a horny fuckwad using you for cock, and NOTHING GOOD happened to you while you were with him. Go the fuck away._ I keep shooting, hoping he gets pissed off enough to leave soon.

"WOULD YOU AT LEAST LOOK AT ME?"

 _Finally. Bye-bye now._

. . . . . . . . . . . .

I think I was stoned when Dad told me the whore was pregnant. I doubt it's mine, given all the dudes she fucks every day, but what the hell. He's had me under a goddamn microscope looking for the slightest trace of queerness for weeks. Like I might relapse or some shit. I figure if I marry Svetlana, he might calm the fuck down.

I get drunk and wake up engaged. That's all I remember. The version dad tells his drinking buddies is fucking priceless: "The kid was so excited to propose! He celebrated so hard when she said yes, he doesn't even remember the proposal! That's my son, lemme tell ya!" _Eat shit, dad._

Marry Svetlana. Tolerate life. Die. Fine. Between booze, weed, and fucking whoever's around when the need kicks in, it probably won't be so bad. Not like my life was ever gonna be a goddamn carnival anyhow, so . . . yeah. It is what it is. _I'll get used to it._

I'm sitting in a junked-out abandoned building 'getting used to it' with a bottle of cheap whiskey. I'm gonna be sick as fuck tomorrow, but that's a problem for Tomorrow Mickey. Today Mickey spent all last night dreaming about Gallagher, so now I gotta drink my way through the craving to keep from completely losing my shit.

 _Are you fucking SERIOUS!?_ I think when Ian walks in. _I know you've heard the news by now, dipshit, in what world does 'he's getting married' mean 'I should go find him!' ? How many ways can I drive you away? Why can't you just let us be over?_ I'm so fucking angry right now. _Just do what you did last time,_ I tell myself. _Say nothing, don't look at him. He'll whine for a few minutes, and then leave._ I grit my teeth and hope to god I get get through the (annoying as shit) minutes without doing anything stupid.

He wants to know if it's Angie Zago or, and I quote, "some other piece of trash you screw so you can pretend I don't matter to you." _Ignore him._ I'm getting angrier by the second. No more love sick puppy here, thanks. Nope. Gallagher's obviously just a moron who can't take a hint. _Ignore, ignore, ignore, ignore . . ._

It works until he breaks the bottle I put in the window sill to throw rocks at. "Hey, what the _fuck,_ Gallagher?" I coulda kept my cool if not for the alcohol, but now I'm pissed.

"Oh, he speaks!"

 _Time to leave._ I know if I let this turn into an actual conversation one of two things will happen. 1) I beat the shit out of him so he gets the message loud and clear, despite all the romantic sappy bullshit clogging his brain. Or, 2) I relapse and end up letting him rage fuck me right here in the rubble. _If that happens you'll get attached again, Mickey,_ I warn myself. _Yeah, no shit. Time to leave._

I walk away, but he trails along behind me like a puppy, still TALKING. "So that's it," blah, blah, blah "you're just gonna get married" blah blah blah. Pretty easy to tune out. I keep walking and don't look back. But then the yappy motherfucker touches me. No, he _grabs._

"Get the fuck off me!" I shove him.

"Oh you wanna fag bash?"

 _I do right now you smug, relentless piece of shit!_ He's making my decision for me. _Just keep running that mouth and see what happens!_ I'm trying to stay focused on the rage but the second I punch him in the gut, and he doubles over, I hurt. I hurt like hell. The whiskey fog tells me not to care, he's got it coming for being so stupid, but mostly I wanna say I'm sorry and kiss him until he forgives me. Either way, I'm screwed. _Oh well. At least he'll probably leave you alone now._ I try to walk away again.

"You love me. And you're gay."

He says it so quietly. _What the fuck is wrong with you, Ian?!_

"Just admit it. Just this once, fucking admit it."

He's full-on begging, and I hate it because now I _have to_ keep punching him. He'll never get over his dumbass fantasy of us being together if I don't. When I hit him again it feels so goddamn awful, I think I might throw up. Or worse, actually cry. _Would you please just shut up and let me leave you?_

"Feel better now? You feel like a man?"

 _Kick him._ I go for the face. Hard. When I see the blood on his mouth, it's weirdly reassuring. It feels final. _That's gotta be the end of this shit, right?_ "I feel better now." I down as much whiskey as my queasy stomach can handle, toss away the bottle, and walk away without looking back _At least it's over with._

The next morning I'm sick as hell, but also kinda proud of myself. For once, I drew a line and stuck by it. No wavering, no backslide, no everything-I-usually-do-when-Ian's-involved. _Remember when you swore you'd never let it get emotional, and that turned out to be bullshit? And then you PROMISED yourself you'd never kiss him on the mouth, and that was bullshit too? Oh yeah, and the fucking funniest one: remember the morning he actually had you thinking you were IN LOVE?_ I think back to all the stupid ideas I had that morning while I watched him sleep. _Jesus Christ, what a joke!_ I guess the silver lining here is now I know it wasn't really love. Hurting him the way I did has to mean it wasn't real. It just fucking has to. Which means all I gotta do now is get over the illusion, and stop dreaming about the sex.

 _Time,_ I think. _All I need is time, and everything will go back to how it was before. Except I'll be married to a hooker._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It's the day of the wedding and I gotta smoke a million cigarettes just to stay calm enough not to shake. I'm in a room down the hall from where the ceremony is gonna happen, pacing and smoking, and guess who the fuck bursts in the door?

I've been jonesing for him like crazy all day, and here he is. If I was drunk right now I could probably twist this tense, frustrated feeling into rage and start throwing punches again. But I'm stone cold sober, and I've made eye contact. Always a mistake.

"You call me a punk for wanting a boyfriend or whatever, but you're gonna marry someone who screws guys for a living?"

"Who gives a shit, it's a fucking piece of paper!"

"Not to me."

 _God, I love his voice. FUCK!_ Now I _need_ a fix. "Look, just 'cause I'm getting hitched doesn't mean we can't still bang." I wonder if a person can _literally_ get high off of lust, because I barely feel my mouth move as I'm speaking. He tells me that if I give half a shit about him I won't do this, and again, it's his voice. All quiet and sad. _He needs me._ Fucking no one needs me. No one. _This is definitely gonna mess with his head,_ I think as I lunge to kiss him.

A good guy would feel guilty about it, but I'm so far away from being a good guy I can't even care. I haven't felt him like this in weeks, and I need _something_ to help me check out of my stupid fucking reality for a few goddamn minutes. I need it. All of him. I need the fix.


	6. Fighting Words

**This one is a really short one. It was going to be longer, and include a few subsequent scenes, but when I got to the last sentence of _this scene,_ it felt like its own chapter.**

For once in my life, things are turning out better than I thought they would. Being married to Svetlana isn't the worst thing ever. She doesn't expect any of the usual husband stuff from me. As long as I keep a roof over her head and pay for baby stuff, she's fine. No sex, no warm fuzzy bullshit, and sometimes she's okay company. Under the circumstances, I'm getting off pretty easy.

As for Gallagher? I've gotten over my doom-and-gloom all-or-nothing funk. He'll come around eventually. He and I are what we are, fucked up as it is. We never stay away from each other for long, even if we say we're gonna. I'm his habit, and he's mine. _If he doesn't come around by the end of the week, I'll go ahead and surprise him someplace._ As long as I'm careful not to slide back into that 'happily ever after' headspace, there's no reason we can't chill out and keep having fun.

Finally, he shows up at the house. I'm in my room lifting weights, and I hear him and Mandy talking. My first instinct is to charge out there and drag him back to my room, but obviously I can't. Mandy being here and all. Gotta play it casual. Wait a few minutes. In the meantime I flash back to the two of us right before the wedding. It was fast, but . . . _wow._ Gallagher fucked me like he was on a mission or something. Proving a point. I could still feel him inside me while I rattled off vows. It made the whole day a little more bearable.

When I do wander into the hall to chat, Ian doesn't exactly look thrilled to see me. Like I'm pissing on his parade just by standing here. _Still angry at me, huh? Okay. I guess I'll be seducing you this time around._ I figure it's fair play since he _literally_ chased after me when I got engaged. Now it's my turn. _I'll play_. "C'mon I wanna show you something." I lead him back to my room. I have no idea what the fuck I'm going to 'show him' when we get there, it's just an excuse. I figure flirting with him will have more impact if there's a bed nearby. A bed we've fucked in several times.

"Wife made me take down all my Nazi shit. She hates Nazis." _Yeeeeeaaaaaah, that's what I wanted to show you_. He's smart enough to know it's just pretense, but that's kinda the point. I start with a little random chit chat before getting to the point. "Anyway, she's working tomorrow night. Why don't we pick up where we left off?" I take a drag of my cigarette. "I figure she's gonna be out fuckin' dudes. Why can't I?"

"No thanks."

 _Still playing it cool? C'mon, we both know how this ends, quit bluffing!_ "Mmm," I check him out head to toe. "Hard to get's gettin' me hard, Gallagher."

"Well, I'm leaving town."

That's a bummer. _So I'm stuck waiting, what . . . a few days? Few weeks?_ Kind of a let down, but I'm in no position to be pushy. I got fucking married. There's new territory to negotiate here. "There a queer rights rally somewhere?" I ask casually, like it's no big deal.

"Army."

"Ah. Right." _Nice try, liar._ "You gotta be eighteen."

He fiddles with his coat. _Christ, he's so fucking adorable!_ "Yeah, I figured a way around that." _Shit. He's serious_. I ask how long. "Four years. Minimum." _This isn't how this is supposed to go! We don't . . . we're never . . . FUCK!_

"What are you hoping, I tell you not to go?" I ask, feeling sick. "That I chase after you like some bitch?" _Argue with me, Gallagher!_ I need him to keep talking, it's my only path to find his breaking point. _Get pissed off, we'll fight it out, and you'll stay!_

"I didn't come here for you." His voice is all fucking calm and civil. Not even an angry glare. Like he's just . . . done. Over me.

I know it's not true, it can't be true, it's just not possible! _He can't be over us, we're a . . . we're a_. . . _fuck, he's leaving!_ "Don't," I hear myself whine like a baby. I must sound pathetic, because it gets him to stop and turn around.

"Don't what?"

I wanna throw myself at him like I did before the wedding, but I can tell it wouldn't work this time. He won't take the bait. I can't think of a winning strategy. At least not one that doesn't end with Dad or one of his friends killing us both. "Just . . ." I try to talk, but everything I thought I had to be happy about is crumbling right in front of me. My face heats up and I know I'm gonna cry soon. _Who was I kidding?_ I think as Gallagher walks away, still calm. Like nothing awful just happened. Like he's not shredded to shit the way I am. _Like we were never in love._


	7. I'll Do It

**Updated to fix some minor typos.**

I can't hate him enough. I hate him for being gone, I hate him for staying on my mind. I hate him for making me hate everything, even sex. And that one's a cosmic fucking joke, because Ian is the only thought that gets me hard, but the idea of letting any man besides him fuck me is worse than no sex at all. I try _once,_ and it's a humiliating disaster. Full-on panic attack halfway through. It wasn't because I felt like I was being _unfaithful_ or anything. Gallagher left my ass, I get that. It was because of my biggest reason for hating him: knowing we're over isn't enough. I can't stop feeling like _his man._ I can't stand to let another guy have me the way he did.

So now when I really, _really_ need to get off with an actual person, I'm stuck with one of half a dozen cum dumpster girls around the neighborhood. I figure if all they want is cock and all I want is to shoot my load somewhere other than my own hand, everyone wins. _Winning. Right. Fuck off, Milkovich._ And it's not like I look down on the thirsty bitches, either. Clearly I'm no better. So I fuck 'em and try to forget what it felt like to be loved. _It'll fade eventually,_ I tell myself.

 _God, I fucking HATE him!_

I'm actually relieved when I find out how Svetlana and the other girls are getting ripped off at Sasha's place. I coulda just insisted my wife quit, but I go ahead and incite a walk-out. All the girls quit. Running whores gives me something to focus on. Something practical that doesn't piss me off or make me feel like shit. It's small dose of sanity (or what passes for sanity in southside).

Things start to feel normal again. Or at least routine. Then I get the worst fucking news ever. Lip and Deb found their brother working at some queer bar in boystown. That's all they know is where he works, but it's enough. They'll keep going back for him until they convince him to come home, I just know it. _Only a matter of time._ Which means it's also a matter of time until I run into him somewhere. _Fuck. If I could afford to move? Hello, Alaska._

I'm honestly worried I'll kill the motherfucker on sight. Then what would I tell the judge? 'Your honor, I was obsessed with his cock for years, then he left me.' ? _Shit. Shit, shit, shit!_

I'm taking a shit when Mandy busts in on me. _Okay, I know manners aren't a big thing in this house but REALLY?!_

"Douchebag, go find your boyfriend."

I tell her to get the fuck out and close the door, but apparently she thinks this is the perfect time for her to tell me Ian's not texting her back.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I know she knows somethingabout us, but I never _chose_ to tell her a goddamn thing, so the topic is staying off limits as far as I'm concerned. Nosy bitch can go ahead and fuck right off.

"Don't play dumb with me," She says it with this sneer on her face like I'm the world's biggest jackass. "Ian! Y'know you're the reason that he left. So go find him."

I tell her it's not my fucking problem. I would launch into a whole speech about how it's a bad idea for me to go find Gallagher on account of wanting to strangle the guy, but I'm on the goddamn _toilet,_ so the sooner I can end this conversation, the better. She basically orders me to make it my problem, swipes my fucking cigarette, and leaves. Doesn't even close the door behind her. _Bitch._

I tell myself I'm gonna finish my business, forget the conversation ever happened, and get on with running my whores. Maybe sell a few of my guns. Or pick out a nice house to rob just for giggles. Anything but go looking for Gallagher's AWOL ass.

So of course five hours later I'm roaming boystown with a fake police badge and a picture of him looking for the right club. _Whoever names these places should be punched in the dick,_ I think as I'm searching. There's Sparkle, The Sweet Package, Manray, Rainbow City, Woody's, Hot Rocks, The Meatlocker, Perfect Eight . . . _Fucking Christ, why not just throw all your cards on the table and go with Cocks 'R Us?_ In an alternate universe where I own a gaybar, I cut to the chase.

After an aggravating conversation with the bitchiest bearded fag in Chicago, I find out where Gallagher's at. The Fairytale. _Seriously? Punched. In. The. Dick._

When I get there, it's depressing as fuck. The guy I remember wouldn't be caught dead in the outfit they've got him wearing. All he's missing is a pair of tits. _Am I the only gay dude who actually wants men to look like MEN?!_ He's going by the name Curtis, and I gotta throw down $25 bucks just to have a conversation. Sorry, did I say 'throw down'? I meant tuck into the waistband of his super dignified _uniform._

It's pretty clear right off the bat that he's high as shit. Glazed expression, flat tone. Not a good thing, obviously, but as far as me being able to stay calm and talk to him like a grown up instead of chewing him ten new assholes? It sorta helps that he looks and acts nothing like the Ian Gallagher I fell for. I can stay rational. Say what I need to say, and not get distracted by the urge to curse him out. It's a little sad that I can't even enjoy him touching me again, given the . . . I'm just gonna guess 9,000 or so hours I've spent dreaming about his hands on me. Even at my angriest, I'd have given anything to have _my_ Ian doing this. Straddling me, stroking my arms, touching my chest. But this coked out alien dude? Hard pass. _I just need to talk some sense into him._

He's too high to reason with so it doesn't work, not even when I mention his family. I might as well be talking to a stranger. My 'turn' is over when the song ends, and off he goes to grind on some other random creep. _Lotta old dudes in here,_ I notice.I am less and less thrilled with this place by the second, and I walked in unimpressed.

 _You don't wanna listen? Fuck you then,_ I think as I leave and head down the street. _Adios, Dancing Queen!_ But Goddamnit, even coked-out alien Gallagher apparently owns my stupid ass. I'm too worried to leave him like this. _He's not safe around all those perverts._ I turn around and loiter near the door hoping to catch him when he leaves.

 _Nope._ I think when I catch sight of the handsy creep steering him out the door. The gross piece of shit starts licking Ian-actually _licking him_ when I move in. _Not tonight, Grandpa!_ Nothing about him says 'I'm a fighter,' so I chase him off no problem. I feel sorry for the next poor kid he date rapes, but that kid isn't my responsibility. Ian is.

 _He leaves you, makes no attempt to contact you for months, treats you like just another customer at the club, and you STILL can't resist the urge to take care of him?_ I really can't. When it comes to Gallagher I've been helpless since the day he threatened me with that stupid tire iron. So yeah. Whatever it takes to protect him, I'll do it.

 _Unconditional love kinda fucking sucks._


	8. Make Your Move

**Updated to fix a few minor typos**

I'm relieved as fuck Ian decided to head back to that noisy beehive the Gallaghers call a home after Svet kicked him out. Saves me the trouble of crushing every set of perv-balls in boystown until someone tells me where to find him again. I'm standing right there when the second youngest delinquent asks him why he enlisted in the first place.

"Relationship issues."

It's not just the first reason on a list, nah, it's the only reason he mentions. _So it really was just me being a shithead that drove him outta town. My fault._ I'm hoping the fact that I rescued him from a night of drug-addled molestation buys me a clean slate.

The siblings leave us alone, and everything feels weird. He's more focused on scribbling shit in his notebook than talking to me. I can't tell where his head is at, and I sure as shit have no idea where we stand. _Are we still a thing? How do you get back together with someone you never 'officially' dated?_

"You comin' back?"

"Depends. Will you suck my dick whenever I want?" He's not asking me to blow him, just whether or not I'd do it. Hypothetically. Feels more like a power play than a proposition.

"Fuck off." I want him to tease me or give me shit. _Like normal._ I think. _Can I have some NORMAL, please?_ No luck. All he seems to care about is writing in his damn notebook, so I go with it. Ask him what he's writing.

"Stuff. Notes, ideas."

 _Don't overwhelm me with specifics or anything, dickwad._ I can't tell if he even cares that I'm here. I kinda feel like furniture, likeI could turn into a lamp or some shit and he'd just keep on writing. I haven't had his attention since the day he took off, and that time barely counts since he couldn't waitto get the away from me. So really, it's been since the day I got married. Yeah, that's the last time I had his attention. And the last time I felt his hands on me. (I don't count the coked out alien giving me a lapdance other night, that dude wasn't Ian.) I don't wanna be pushy right now, he doesn't need that shit, _especially_ not from me, but I miss him so much it fucking hurts _._ I kinda hate myself for it, but whatever it takes to touch him again . . . y _ou win, Ian._ "I'll do it."

"Do what?"

 _Yeah, this is power trip bullshit._ "Don't make me say it, asswipe."

"Suck my dick. Whenever I want." I don't know what's up with the look on his face. It's like there's an argument going on here, and he knows he's gonna win no matter what. Part of me wants to prove the bitch wrong and walk out. _Why you gotta be so obnoxious, Gallagher?_ This fucking punk has been my weak spot for years, and I can't make myself walk outta the room. I don't really know what sort of test this is as far as he's concerned, but I go to my knees anyhow hoping that he'll start acting like himself again once he feels my mouth on his cock, doing everything I know he likes.

Nope. _You're really fucking good at being WRONG lately, Milkovich._

No matter what I do or how well I do it (and pardon the brag, but I've gotten really damn good at this) he sits still. I don't feel his hands on my head, or touching my arms, or his voice whispering compliments the way he used to. Hands stay flat on the mattress, and aside from your standard issue sex-noises, he's a total goddamn mute.

'Gonna cum' he mutters right before it happens, and that's all I get.

When it's over I stay on the floor, on my knees, looking up at him and that weird expression on his face. It's more 'work for it, bitch' than 'I love you.' It's messing with my head. I'm used to the Gallagher that throws himself into our relationship every fucking day. To am _annoying_ extent, actually. _Do you even wanna be with me anymore?_ There's only one way to find out. "Are we okay, Ian?" I try not to sound desperate when I ask.

He gives me a little smile. "We will be."

I must look as relieved as I feel, because the smile gets a little bigger. Not by much, but still. It counts. I stand up and take a step back, ready to give him space and go do other shit while he writes, but he reaches out and grabs my belt.

"Your turn."

I'm up and ready before he even finishes unzipping my pants. Ian may be acting weird as all shit, it's still _him,_ and I've spent months hating how much I want him back. So yeah, I know it's goddamn pathetic, but I'll take scraps. If that's all I can get at the moment? Fine. Scraps it is. If I want us to work out, I have to meet him where he is. _You've always had him chasing after you like a whipped bitch, Mickey. This is what that shit feels like. Fun, huh? Yeah, fucking choke on it, dumbass._

So many months of not even seeing him, and now his mouth is sliding over my cock. I try, but I don't last long. I cum, groaning an apology. "Sorry . . . sorry, I've just m, missed . . . I missed you . . ." I look down and touch his face. His expression stays blank, but he does lean into it, sorta nuzzling the palm of my hand. It's a huge fucking relief. _We are gonna be okay._

Later on we agree that with Svetlana feeling so . . . murder-y, we should probably stay at the Gallagher house for a while. Ian's bed is a twin, and I'm crazy excited about being close to him all night-and about waking up in bed with him tomorrow. _Will I be the little spoon again? Yeah, probably._

But when we turn in for the night, he tosses a pillow and blanket on the floor next to his bed. "Sleep tight, Mickey."

 _You FUCKER!_ Punching him in the balls sounds like a really satisfying thing to do right now . . . but so does offering another blowjob in exchange for a spot on the bed. I resist the urge and settle for my place on the floor, but I'm frustrated and cranky as shit. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm the one who caused this. _You're lucky he's even talking to you._ I drove him away with my weakass bullshit, so I'm the one who needs to prove something. Prove I am in this thing for real. For good. I may not ever be a sappy, hearts-and-flowers type of guy, but I have pretty much figured out what it takes to be a good partner when it fucking counts.

 _Just keep being here for him,_ I think as I fall asleep, _However he needs._ I know I can do it. I'm so committed, the next night I even agree to go with him to the club and watch him shake his sequined ass at horny strangers. I know it aint gonna be fun for me _at all,_ but all in means all in. _Bring on the horny strangers._

. . . . . . . . . . .

I hate horny strangers. Especially when they're eye-fucking Ian. No! _Mine! . . . great, Greedy Toddler Mickey is back in town. Still though, back off you drunkass faggots!_ At least most of 'em seem to get that he's doing his _job,_ and don't press their luck. Buuuuuuuut then some gross, squashy middle aged fucker's just gotta lick his money before going to tuck it into Ian's waistband. _Oh, you are clearly lookin' to grope some cock! Think again, shitbag._ I yank him away from Gallagher's stage, make a few threats, and that's the end of it. Guy tells me to calm down and scuttles away.

 _I am so fucking uncomfortable with everything about this place._ All these queers loitering around, chatting, flirting, relaxed as fuck. Like everything is okay and they don't gotta worry about anyone waiting around the corner to break their bones. _Are they all from a different planet? Some kind of Fagtopia?_

Ian steps down from his platform to tell me we've been invited to a party, and I guess I don't show enough _enthusiasm_ for the idea, 'cause he gives me shit. "It's fun! What's wrong with fun?"

"Nothing, unless it involves some fat faggot shoving his hands down your-" I was gonna say 'stupid, sequined underwear,' but Ian moves in for a kiss with no warning at all, and I jump outta my goddamn skin. I barely let him _touch me_ when we're in public. "The fuck?!" _What made you think I'd be okay with that shit, Gallagher?!_

He looks around the place, then at me. And just like with the blowjob, his expression is more challenge than flirt. Another test, maybe?

. . . _Why the fuck is this so difficult?_ I think as I glance around the room, trying to choke down eighteen years paranoia. Kissing a dude in public runs against literally every instinct I got. Even aside from the whole _dude_ thing, I'm not a fan of people who feel okay about slobbering all over each other in public like the rest of us wanna see that shit.

On the other hand, I miss him looking at me the way he used to. Devoted and happy. Not like I'm a contestant on his own personal competition show. What really pushes me over the edge, though, is the fact that I haven't kissed him in months. _Fuck everything._

The second my mouth touches his, I'm _gone_. They could shine a spotlight on us, and I'd keep going. I doubt I'd even notice. _He'll have to be the one to break away,_ I think. _I'm gonna keep kissing him as long as he fucking lets me._ I never even bothered to fantasize about a reality where I can kiss him in public and feel completely safe. But I do. Feel safe, I mean. Totally safe. And that's a new thing.

Looking back at the guy I was before he left me, I'm just now realizing that even the times when we were alone, doors locked, curtains drawn, complete privacy . . . I never felt _totally_ safe. There was always a little fear in the back of my mind. Fucking _always._ So yeah, right now is amazing, and I hope he keeps kissing me for a long, long time. He doesn't let me down. Shit, for all I know a whole month goes by before we come up for air. For the first time ever, I get why these bars are so popular. _I still think they need less fruity names, though._

We go to the party, and I'm right back to feeling awkward as hell. _The fuck do I have in common with these guys? We all like cock. End of list. Gee, let's all be pals forever!_ One thing I do appreciate: none of 'em are hitting on Ian, or acting like dancing on stage for a living makes him their toy. _That's nice, I guess, they all get that it's his JOB._ Still, finding shit to talk about is almost impossible. I do manage to find a gun enthusiast, so that was a decent conversation. Oh, and a dude who served time in juvie for being an angry little shithead.

"Nothing says 'I'm not a sissy' like excessive violence, am I right?" The guy shrugs and smiles at me like we're war buddies. Turns out as queer dudes go, I'm a lot less fucking unique than I thought. _Huh._

Ian and I end up crashing on a sofa bed that probably costs more than all the furniture in my house. We're both too sleepy to fool around, but he looks at me and grins before he falls asleep. It's familiar. I can see him fishing through his coat pocket for that small bottle of lube the first time we hooked up, and it makes my stomach flip over. _Same fucking grin, same fucking reaction, Mickey._ I wanna travel back in time and punch that guy in the throat for not letting Ian kiss him that day.

Ryan wakes me up the next morning. He should really give up photography and open a B&B, because I get a list of breakfast options. Fancy. I go with eggs. He also asks if Ian and I are together, and I gotta mull it over. I'm almost certain we are, but _almost certain_ still leaves room for me to be wrong, and I am a goddamn master at being wrong. I glance down at Ian. Dude's fast asleep, so I decide to be optimistic. "Together."

A few seconds later, Ian takes a deep breath. "Did I hear that right?" he asks without opening his eyes.

 _You fake-sleepin' little bitch!_ "Yeah, you heard that right." The obvious question is on the tip of my tongue, but part of me doesn't wanna ask. In case I'm wrong. _Just stay in the bubble, things are nice here._ But I can't. I have to know. "Are we together . . . ?" I ask quietly, so no one else can hear. He takes another deep breath, and I wait for him to open his eyes. And wait. And wait. _No, please take your time, I'm not rolling around in broken glass over here._ It's fucking torture.

Finally, he looks at me and smiles. "C'mere."

I lean down thinking it'll be a quick peck on the mouth. Making out in a gay bar full of drunk guys is one thing, doing it in someone's home, in front of sober dudes is another. _Tacky_. But then I feel his fingers combing through my hair, and I can't help it. My arm goes under his waist and I slide him closer. His tongue moves against mine, slow and soft and fucking perfect. When I smell french toast cooking, I snap out of it. "Mmph," I try to talk as I pull away. "Sorry, Frisky Guy. We got people ten feet away from us."

"You don't have to," says the best host ever. "I'm happy to hold off on the eggs if you'd like to spend some time in the guest room."

"Sorry about that, Ryan," Ian apologizes, a little sheepish as he sits up next to me. "It's just Mickey and I have been apart for a few months." He scoots closer and squeezes my arm. Everyone in the room is listening, and now _I_ feel sheepish. "Then a few days ago he came and found me at the club, and literally _carried me_ home."

I turn my face away from our audience as they all go 'aaaaawwww' like we're a pair of adorable puppies. "That leaves out some details," I whisper in Ian's ear.

"Gotta give the people what they want." He winks at me, clearly not giving a shit.

I'm absolutely fucking certain my face is beet red right now.

"You two are just _precious,"_ says Ryan. "Seriously, the guest room is all yours."

I'm worried Ian's face is gonna transform into that mask of I-dare-you-to again, but it doesn't. _Good, I'm over that shit._ Instead I have _my Gallagher_ back. He's holding my hand and waiting. I can see him smiling at me through the glass back in juvie, patiently tolerating my nonsense. _Don't say you miss me, don't touch the glass, blah blah bullshit blah_. Our relationship has a pattern. I draw a line, he wants me to move the line, I say I won't move the line, I move the line. Today is no different. I need him. _Guest room, NOW._ I only have one concern left.

"Are the sheets clean?" I ask Ryan. "I aint fuckin' on top of some other dude's wet spot."

[So yeah, the next chapter is pretty much gonna be all schmoop & smut. My happy place.]


	9. Out Loud

**Scene immediately after last chapter ends. Children avert your eyes, dirty, dirty things are about to happen. Also some schmoop. **edited to correct minor typos****

The music playlist switches from soft jazz to 80s hair bands as Ian steers me toward the hallway. "Fun fact about this place," Ryan calls out over the music, "the insulation is fantastic. Have fun."

"That dude is my second favorite homo on earth."I tell Ian while we shuffle down the hall. He's behind me kissing my throat, one hand working on my belt buckle.

"Mmhm," his teeth graze my earlobe. "He's pretty great. Told you we'd have fun." He doesn't seem in a hurry to get to the guest room, but I'm going outta my fucking mind. The way my pulse is racing you'd think I've never been laid before.

"What door?" I ask.

"Hm?"

I feel his hand slide into my pants, and bite my lip to keep quiet. "Guest room. What door?"

"Last one on the right."

"K." I spin around, grab a fistful of his shirt, and drag him with me the rest of the way.

Once we're in the room, I push him up against the door, clutching his hair and pawing at him like a clumsy kid. I'm too worked up to stay coordinated. I feel like I'll lose my shit if we're not both naked in the next minute. I can tell my foreplay-happy enthusiasm has Ian caught off guard, but he's loving it. Basking in the attention. If I'd been cool with kissing and stuff when we first got together this is probably what our first time would've been like. Needy and over excited about every damn detail.

I'm outta my clothes in like a second, then get on Gallagher right away. Running by hands over his chest, back, kissing him like it could save my fucking life. He whines against my mouth when I wrap my hand around his cock and stroke slow. Meanwhile, I'm pressed against his thigh, rocking my hips at the same pace. Our height difference makes it work out easy.

We're breathing shallow, staring at each other. I love everything about how he looks right now. Blown out pupils, eyelids kinda fluttering, like he's getting high on how I touch him. _I didn't forget how to do this._ How to please Ian is the last fucking thing on earth I would ever forget. I drop my head into the crook of his neck and breath him in. "Love you," I mutter against his skin. "Sorry I never mentioned." I hear him chuckle, and draw back a bit. _Did I say something funny?_ It's not the reaction I was expecting.

"You have mentioned." Ian says with a smile.

 _Bullshit, firecrotch._ "Bullshit, firecrotch!" I don't stop stroking him, but I do kinda giggle. If he's gonna talk crazy, I'm gonna laugh.

"The day you got married . . . right when you came . . . said it like three times." He leans in to kiss me. "I wondered if you knew it was out loud." He kisses me again, and I'm almost too shocked to respond. _Almost._

I remember specifically forcing myself _not_ to say 'I love you' that day, so Ian wouldn't get his hopes up any higher than they already were. _No wonder he was so shocked I went through with it!_ What fucking kills me is that he's standing here, naked and willing, with the same guy who hurt him that much. _You gave him everything he wanted, then went and married a whore._ It sucks, and I can't think of a goddamn thing to say to make it suck less. I'm worried it'll ruin the mood if I try, so I decide to stay in the present.

I put my arms around his waist and guide him in the direction of the bed. "I have no idea _when_ I fell in love with you, Gallagher, but I truly fucking did." I sit down on the edge of the bed and look up at him. "I fell in love, and I've stayed there every second since."

I can tell he's trying to find something to say back, but I don't want him to, so I press my tongue flush against the head of his cock and start licking as I stroke the length of him. He moans and threads his fingers through my hair. "Good," he whispers. "Really good . . . love you so much." I run my tongue from base to tip several times before leaning back. "Do you wanna fuck me?" I ask. "Or should I finish y-"

"I'll get the lube." He cuts me off. Either he knows there's lube is in the nightstand because _of course_ there would be in a gay man's house, or he's been in this room before, banging someone else. I'm weirdly unbothered by the thought. We were apart, we both made choices, simple as that. _Rational thought, motherfuckers. I'm giving it a try._

When he comes back to me I move far enough up the mattress for him to crouch between my legs. He starts with two fingers, sucking and stroking my cock in the meantime while he gets me ready to take him. I doubt it's even a minute before I'm bucking into his hand. Third finger. _I need you._ "Ready," I tell him. "Ready now. Do it."

"Y'sure?"

I bite my lip and nod. "Mmhm."

"Okay." He positions himself, lifts my legs over his shoulders, and I feel the pressure of him moving in. He's hard, and warm, and the deeper he goes the better I feel. "Good?" He asks.

"Good." I take in a sharp breath at the first full thrust. He's careful with me, gradually speeding up to a brisk pace. It's not long before I'm completely fuck-drunk, focused on not a goddamn thing but the way Ian feels inside me. _I did almost forget what this felt like._ It's not long before I'm right on the edge of cumming, but it's too soon. I'm not ready for this to be over. "Slowdown!" I gasp like it's one word. "Too close! Slowdown, slowdown!"

"Okay." Ian stops to catch his breath, pulls almost all the way out of me, then eases himself forward again, leaning over me, rocking his hips, hands on the mattress so my legs slip halfway down his arms. "Is this better?"

"Yeah," I sigh as my racing heartbeat starts to mellow out. "Yeah . . . didn't wanna cum yet."

"Mmmmmmmmm," Ian moans as his forehead drops to rest on mine. "Why not?"

"I ha-haven't . . . felt you f-for . . . _months . . ._ need more." I grab his neck and pull myself up enough to kiss him. "Wanna last," I whisper, shuddering as he makes these perfect, quiet, happy noises against my mouth.

"How about-" He pulls out suddenly, rearing up on his knees. I would complain, but he motions for me to follow, getting behind me as I do, hands resting on my hips.

I reach behind me and clutch Ian's thighs as he slides back inside me. "How's this?"

"Yeah . . ."my head drops into the curve of his neck as his arms wind around me. "Oh . . . _fuck!"_ I close my eyes and feel his breath against my ear, his hands all over my chest, tongue and teeth on my throat, my shoulders, and everything is okay. Not a chance in hell anyone's gonna bust in and ruin this, so I don't need to think about a goddamn thing but how good it all feels. "So fucking _perfect . . ."_

Eventually things speed up again, and this time I want it. I pitch forward and brace myself against the wall, stroking myself at a pace that lets Ian know I'm ready for more. He takes the hint, thrusting fast and aggressive, but doesn't let himself go until I start to cum.

We both pull back the covers when it's over. He lays down, but I stay sitting up, cross-legged, just watching him get settled.

"What?" He chuckles. "Don't tell me you're not worn out, because I can't-"

"Oh, I'm worn out, don't worry." I smile at him and run a hand through my sweat-matted hair. Something totally ridiculous occurs to me out of the blue. "Hey I gotta tell you something, Gallagher." I lay down on my stomach next to him, propped up on my elbows.

"What is it?" He looks concerned.

"It's um . . . something I aint ever said to anybody."

"Okay," Ian nods. "Yeah, you can tell me anything, Mickey."

I look him dead in the eye and smile. "I'm gay."

The reaction is fucking priceless. He laughs so hard it looks painful. What makes it so perfect, so dumbass crazy hilarious, is it's true. I haven't actually said it to anyone before. In fact, I can even count on one hand the number of times I've said it out loud _to_ _myself._

"Wow, Mick," says Ian, still chuckling. "That's uh . . ."

"Bombshell, right?"

"Mmhmm." He takes my hand and laces our fingers together, finally calm enough to breath normally. "Though it does explain how my dick keeps ending up in your ass."

"That was a _big clue."_ I nod.

Ian cannot stop grinning, and I love it. "So what finally cracked the case, Detective?"

 _I have never been this fucking happy._ "I like being the little spoon."

Ian's face scrunches up. "Ew. Fag."

"That's right, bitch." I elbow him in the side and roll over, pulling his arm around me as I go. _Completely fucking right._


	10. PRIDE

I don't know why I'm surprised, he's been kind of obnoxious all day. ("Just wondering if we're a couple or not.") _Seriously, asshole? I've kissed you in public, literally all of Ryan's friends know we're fucking, said I love you, what more does it take?_ But this bullshit stunt goes beyond obnoxious. Throwing a fit and dumping me outta nowhere just 'cause Svetlana wants to kick him out of one stupid party? It's an asshole move, and I'll bet anything the bitch knows it. Maybe planned it, even. _I don't need this shit, Ian,_ I think as he goes for his coat. He heads back my way, and I figure we'll keep fighting it out until I can calm him the fuck down, but no. He walks right by without even looking at me.

 _Pick a fight!_ I tell myself. Either I'll win the fight then smooth things over, or he'll end up so pissed off it gets him hot and we'll sneak out back for a quick fuck, which is usually our version of a truce. It's a good plan. _Provoke him._ "Y'know what, good. Leave!" I say. "What the hell do I care, bitch?" I figure brushing off this little scene he's started will be enough to send him into another big sanctimonious rant, and we'll go from there. Nope. He's still headed for the exit. Not in a big rush, but apparently I aint even worth a backwards glance. _This isn't good, Mickey . . . he's almost to the door! Fucking DO SOMETHING!_

The exit is right behind the table where my dad is sitting. So there they both are. The fuckbag who's done nothing but hurt me my whole life, and the guy I'm in love with. One of them is sitting down and proud of me, the other is heartbroken and leaving. It's the exact fucking opposite of what I want, and I'm just standing here, letting it happen. _Are you really this goddamn dumb?!_

I got two options. Come out right the hell now, or let myself get dumped. I'm thinking a mile a minute. It's like time slows down or something so I can work through my shit. _Okay Mickey, if you come out right now, dad beats your ass . . . he MIGHT kill you, but Ian will know you were all in. Committed. He'll have the fucking proof._ Or: _keep quiet._ _You WON'T die, but Ian will know you've been stringing him along for years, just enjoying the sex and wasting his time._

I've been staring at the ground, and when I look up again Ian has one foot out the door. Literally. _Oh, FUCK NO!_ I'm slamming my hand on the bar before I can process another thought. _Fuck thinking. Keep Ian._ "Hey! 'Scuse me, can I get everybody's attention, please?" _This is happening. Buckle up, Pops._ "I just want everybody here to know, I'm fuckin' gay!" Dad stays in his seat, staring at me. I know from years of experience that the longer he stews, the worse the beating is gonna be, so I'm bracing myself for a balls to the wall throw down. In the meantime: " . . . big ol' mo . . . just thought everybody should know that . . ." _He's still sitting. I hope someone pulls him off me before I'm dead._

I look at Ian. I'm still kinda pissed off about his shitty, theatrical timing, but I love him and I need to know if this fixes things between us. "You happy now?" He looks flat out stunned. I'd give him a smile, but I'm too nervous. No one else in the bar seems to give a shit, but my dad? It's any second now. I know where he stands. I remember **the talk:**

I'm drinking a beer in the kitchen and trying not to think about what happened the other day. Dad forcing me to fuck that whore while Ian watched. It feels like a nightmare. Dad walks in and heads for the fridge. All I wanna do is run away, but ever since . . . I'm too fucking scared to do anything except try to be invisible. I lean against the counter, stare at my beer, and hope he leaves the room soon.

"Look Mickey, I want you to know you've got nothing to be ashamed of," He says, opening his own can of beer. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I can't figure out what the fuck is going on.

 _Did dad have an overnight epiphany or something? Does he actually feel guilty? Is he gonna let me keep Ian?_

"That fairy _manipulated you,_ Son. You see that, right?"

 _Oh. Of course._ "Yeah, dad. Yeah, I do." I take a sip of my drink.

"I just don't want you thinking it was your fault. Lotta these perverts got it down to a . . . a fuckin' science, how to confuse regular guys." He gives my shoulders a squeeze, and I can tell this is what passes for concerned parenting in his mind. "Like in your case, I bet Gallagher only got you that job at his store so he could have you all to himself, y'know, isolated. To get in your head."

"Really?" I ask, like I'm actually confused. "That's what he did?"

"Oh yeah," dad nods. "See, that way he's got hours and hours a day where he can give you all kinds of attention, and compliments, boost your ego." He shrugs. "All that shit feels good, and eventually you get confused. I seen it happen to one of my buddies back in high school."

"You did?"

"Mmhmm." dad pauses to take a long swig of beer. "Keith Conner. This queer boy started hovering around him all the time, and me and the rest of the guys, we all knew the faggot was trying to get in his pants. We just figured Keith was too fuckin' _nice_ to shut him down and chase him off. So finally, one day, we get the guy cornered, tell him to stay the fuck away from our friend and beat the piss out of him." I watch dad hang his head like he's at a funeral, looking down at an open casket. "Shoulda done it sooner," he says. "When we told Keith it was okay, and the faggot wouldn't be bothering him any more . . . that's when we found out it was too late. He'd already turned full homo." He squeezes my shoulders again and pats my back, like an actual dad might do to reassure a nervous kid. "I know it was awful what happened to you, son. And it was tough for me to see it, too, believe me. But I'm just glad as hell I found out in time to _correct_ that shit!"

"Thanks dad." I can't believe this conversation is even happening. The only time my dad has ever attempted a heartfelt father/son talk and it's _this bullshit._ And it's not over . . .

"Listen to me kiddo." He sets his beer on the counter and looks me square in the eyes, dead serious. "It's over now, okay? We showed that pansy cocksucker you're still a man!" He says 'we' like I was in on the whole fucking-a-whore strategy.

"Yeah." I nod, wishing I could bolt from the house and never come back.

"Exactly. And don't worry, if he tries to start _rumors_ about you," dad scoffs, "we'll take care of it. I won't tolerate anyone walking around saying _my son_ is a fucking queer. No one!"

Like I'm not in enough shock already, the twisted prick actually pulls me in for a hug _. A HUG._ Every word out of his mouth is toxic fucking poison, and he thinks it's hug time. Like he's father of the year.

"I'm proud of you, Mickey. You're a good kid. Don't forget that. A damn good kid."

That was then. **This is now:**

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" Dad flips his table and comes at me.

 _Oh yeah?_ I think, taking the first swing as soon as he's within reach. _Try it, old man._ Sure, Ian may have pretty much cornered me into doing this, but now that it's done I'm riding a huge adrenaline high. Even with dad hitting me over and over.

I realize something as I fight back. If he doesn't manage to kill me right now, before this ends, he loses his chance. Because there's a room full of people here listening to his 'I'll kill you faggot/queer/homo' rage-rant while he beats me, so if I turn up dead later, everyone will know who did it, and why, and he'll spend the rest of his life in maximum security prison. A year or two in jail is one thing. But big-boy prison? Nah, he ain't gonna risk that shit. _Survive,_ I tell myself. _Just survive this fight and you win for good._

When Kev and some of dad's friends pull us apart, I decide winning isn't enough. I wanna rub it in dad's face.

He still doesn't seem to have a grip on what just happened. "You let that fucking cocksucker mess you up! You're a weak little-"

"Oh, that's right!" I yell, cutting him off. "You think Ian took his sweet time _manipulating_ his way into my pants, don't you?"

"Fuckin' right! No Milkovich-"

"Wrong! Y'know how it started, _daddy?_ Eye contact! Yeah, he didn't have to say one fuckin' word! We were fighting and I had him pinned down, coulda knocked him senseless, no problem!" I glance around the room at everyone, including Ian who's sitting close by, proud as all hell. "But then he _looked at me,_ and that's all it took-"

"Shut up!" Dad is so angry now he's shaking, trying to get free of the guys holding him back. "Shut the fuck up, shut the-"

"I couldn't give it up _FAST ENOUGH!"_ I'm bellowing over him so loud it makes my throat hurt. "And it's been like that ever since, bitch! I've been letting him have me all over southside for _years!_ He didn't manipulate a goddamn thing, Pops, I just fucking _WANTED HIM!"_

"You're not my son!"

"Oh yes I am! And by this time tomorrow-"

"Drop dead, you fucking faggot! You're-"

I raise my voice even louder to drown him out. "BY TOMORROW THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD IS GONNA KNOW HOW MUCH YOUR PRECIOUS LITTLE BOY LOVES _COCK!"_ I wanna force all the information into his ears, every graphic detail. Brain-rape the shitsack until he has a stroke. For some reason, the more I tell him, the better I feel. Could be all the adrenaline, or maybe it's just pure _justice._ The son he wanted had no way to really hurt him, to get revenge for years of abuse. But Gay Mickey? Oh, hell yeah. Gay Mickey is armed to the teeth. Gay Mickey can _destroy him_ by just not shutting up.

By the time the cops get here and drag us outside, he's declaring me evicted from the house. "Fuckin' faggot! Get outta my house, you pole smokin' queer!"

 _Does the stupid old man not realize they're gonna take him back to jail, um . . . right now? He can't order me around for shit! Moron!_ I've been out of the closet for less than twenty minutes, but so far I like it a lot. Even bent over the hood of a cop car in the Chicago cold with the taste of blood in my mouth, life is fucking sweet. _Time for some meaningful last words,_ I think as the cops start dragging dear ol' dad away. I opt for telling him how much I love sucking Ian's dick. _Nailed it!_ _Sweet dreams, motherfucker!_


	11. Hear Me

**Here be fluff, and angst, and smut.**

When I first start waking up, I'm pretty fucking certain it was a dream. Crowing 'I'm big homo' to a room full of people just to keep Gallagher from _exiting a room_ doesn't sound like me. But then the feeling comes back to me. The thousand-ton dread of watching him get closer and closer to the door. _Maybe I did do it? . . . there's an arm around you, Mickey. . . bullshit . . . no bullshit, and there's a hand over yours, too . . ._

I might open my eyes and find out it was just a . . . what do you call it, phantom feeling? Like still feeling an amputated limb. That kinda shit. It happened to me a few times after Ian took off for the army. I'd be half-awake, feel his mouth brushing my ear, and turn around all excited just to find out it was only a blanket. Or hell, nothing but little bit of dreamlife following me into the real world for a split second. It sucked. If that's what this is I'm gonna be cranky all damn day.

 _Just get it over with._ I man up, open my eyes, and there it is. Ian's hand covering mine. Now I'm awake enough to remember the whole night, and what it felt like. The adrenaline, the anger, and the sky-high euphoria of bringing Gallagher home to my _bed_ without one fucking worry. _Our_ bed if he's down to move in. I'm beyond ready for that shit.

 _You got nothing left to worry about._ It's still sinking in. I sit up and put my hand on his head, kinda stroking his hair. Part of me wants to kiss him awake, but he looks all calm and peaceful, and he hasn't had enough of that lately. Or y'know, _ever_. I figure I better leave the room before I go ahead and do it anyway 'cause I'm a greedy bastard.

I decide to take him out to breakfast when he wakes up. And I'm gonna make a point of ordering for both of us just so he can hear me say to the server 'my boyfriend will have.' I owe the guy _years worth_ of backpay in the form of public coupledom. _I'm gonna settle the SHIT outta that debt! I should probably make a to-do list for the day and bring him along for everything._ 'My boyfriend needs a new tie,' 'my boyfriend is looking for the coffee isle,' 'my boyfriend and I are re-tiling the bathroom,' 'my boyfriend and I are boyfriends and we're dating 'cause that's what gay dudes due, also we fuck a lot.' _I can't wait!_

 _. . . Well, that was a fun idea while it lasted._ He won't get outta bed and he won't tell me why, either. So now I've got whiplash from hell, and I need some fucking answers. _Get his family here,_ I decide after Mandy and I both try everything we can think of. Svetlana even takes Yevgenny into the room to see if Adorable Baby Magic kicks in. _Could work. My kid is cute as fuck._ Nope, gotta bring in the Gallagher clan.

So now there's fuckin' Fiona standing here saying 'bipolar disease,' which sounds to me like a bullshit psycho-babble term.

"It's like high highs followed by low lows over and over again. We'll get him an appointment at the clinic, and we'll see what they say."

 _When did 'sad' turn into a clinical thing?_ "No, no, look he's low, we'll cheer him up," I tell her, figuring that's the end of it. Simple fix.

"It's not like that, he may have to be hospitalized."

"What do you mean, like a psych ward?" _Fuck. No._ I just flipped my whole life upside down to keep us together, I'm not about to hand him over to a bunch of strangers in lab coats! "No fuckin' way." I tell Fiona. "No fuckin' way! He's staying here!"

 _I get a say in this, goddamn it, I'm his partner!_

"He could end up suicidal!" _She's fucking relentless._

"So we hide the knives until he perks up! I c, can-I can take care of him, okay? Let-let me take care of him until he's better!" I'm right on the edge of losing my shit, but I can't let her win. I got this. _End of discussion._

But the bitch keeps going. "It can be weeks," she says. "It's mood swings, okay, it's almost impossible to handle-"

 _Oh fuck you, Fiona._ Impossible is coming out to the dad you thought would literally end your life for being with a man, and I survived that shit two days ago! "Don't fucking tell me what's impossible!" I yell. "We're taking care of him _here._ You, me, _us._ He's fuckin' family! _"_ She's pissing me off right now, but still. I know I'll need her help. I just gotta make her understand that Ian and I are beyond the fluffy love bubble stage. I'm ready for this. _Ian needs me to be ready for this._

She gives up arguing with me and says something about whatever the hell to Deb.

"He's not going to some fuckin' nuthouse, you hear me?" I say, just in case she thinks she can still overrule me. "He stays here. He's staying with me!" _Do you get it, Fiona? You even try to drag him out the door, I will toss you on your ass._

After she and Deb leave, I go to the room and crouch behind Ian. "Hey . . . you can stay in bed as long as you need to, man. It's fine." I stroke his hair and kiss his shoulder a few times. "I'll be right here for whatever you need, okay?" I'm not expecting a response, so when he whispers 'thanks,' it makes my breath catch in my throat. _See?_ I think. _Progress already. The guy just needs some time to work through his shit. How is that so complicated?_

Turns out, it isn't. I'm actually a little annoyed at Fiona. She got me all worked up and worried over nothing. Or nothing _much,_ at least. The routine for the next few weeks is a little strange, but it aint _difficult._ I get up and do my thing, Ian stays in bed, every once in a while I offer food or bring him water, and then I climb back into bed at night. Simple.

It's been about six days, and I'm sitting on the living room floor playing with Yevgenny when Ian steps out of the hallway and heads for the fridge. "I'm hungry," He says without looking at me.

"Appetite comin' back?" I ask.

"I guess." He makes a sandwich and folds it up in a paper towel. I decide to put my focus on Yev rather than try to force any chit chat before he goes back to the room. He's showing improvement, but I figure it's best not to press my luck. My luck tends to be turd-coated shit. So I don't realize he's coming toward me until I see his feet out of the corner of my eye. When I look up, he's next to me. Not really _smiling_ like the old Ian, but . . . the look on his face is affectionate _. Close enough,_ I think. _I'll take it._

That's three milestones in one day. He's left the room, initiated eye contact, and his face isn't totally blank or miserable.

"Hi Mickey," he whispers, and bends down to kiss me.

"Hi there." _Four milestones._ He runs his hand through my hair, kisses me one more time, and goes back to bed.

When I turn in for the night, I decide to take a risk. I've been keeping to my side of the bed all week, but tonight I scoot close, and put my arm over him. "This okay?" I ask.

"Yeah." He takes my wrist and pulls my arm tighter around him. "It's good."

 _He's on his way back._ I think. _We made it! Fuck doctors!_

We sleep like that every night for the rest of the week, and every day he spends more and more time out of bed. Sometimes he just moves to the couch and stays _there_ all fuckin' day, but at least it's a change of scenery.

Then I wake up one morning to the weight of him on top of me, naked, and his tongue on my throat. "Ian?" I barely have time to say the word before he inhales my mouth like I've got the best drug ever hidden in there.

"Sorry," he says between kisses. "Was gonna wait . . . for you to . . . wake up . . ." he sighs into my mouth and palms me through my boxers. "Couldn't wait."

"S'okay," I assure him. I have never been more sincere about _anything_ in my entire fucking life! This sad phase of his kinda shelved my post-coming out plan of screwing like rabbits all over the house, so we've got lots of catching up to do as far as I'm concerned. Plus, if nothing else, I gotta get back at Svet and Innika for the weeks and weeks of loud lesbian sex I've had to put up with. I'm sure the straight dude next door loves it. Probably sleeps with his window open just to listen in and jerk off. But for a horny gay dude slogging his ass through a forced dry spell? It's like torture. "Ian," I whine, wrapping a leg around him. "Ian! _Missed you!"_

I think he tries to say 'missed you' back, but it's garbled because he's pretty much swallowing my tongue. I'm kissing back and pawing at every part of him I can reach.

"Get your fucking clothes off, Mick!" He moves away so I can do it, then tackles me to the mattress again before my boxers and t-shirt even have time to hit the floor.

"Feeling better are we?" I muse as he leans back, stroking himself.

"Mmhmm," He nods. "Sorry for the bullshit." He takes my hand and guides it to my own hard on.

 _Oh right,_ I think, taking ahold of myself to mirror his stroke. _This is how sex works._ "It wasn't that bad," I assure him, though after weeks of nothing, just the sight of him touching himself is almost enough to finish me off.

"Still," he coats two fingers in precum, and I can't help shuddering when they push inside me. "I know it wasn't easy."

"Anything-aaaaaaaaaahhhhhh . . ." _Words, Mickey. Ignore the assplay, and find some fucking words!_ "Anything it takes. We're together." My pulse is racing, he's curling his fingers inside me, and it's all I can do not to beg for his cock. "Together, Gallagher. We're together." I close my eyes and focus on saying it over and over. Chanting it in my head, too. _We're together, we're together, we're together._ I used to resist orgasm because I thought there was no such thing as afterglow. Now I resist it for Ian's sake. I wanna be hard, turned on, and still participating when he fucks me. Not laying here spent while he gets off. _We're together . . . we're together . . . we're together . . ._

I'm bucking harder and harder against the thrust of his fingers, and I know I'm not gonna last another minute unless something changes. So I stop stroking myself and clutch the sheets instead.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful like this, Mickey," I hear him whisper. I wanna open my eyes, but I'm afraid looking at him would push me over the edge.

Instead I feel my way up his chest and shoulders until I find his face. "Love you." It's all the words I can manage. I'm physically _aching_ by the time he tells me to roll over. _Finally!_ I pull a pillow under my chest and rest my head in my arms as Ian's fingers curl around my cock.

Starting at my lower back, he licks and kisses his way to my ear, nuzzling softly when he gets there. "Ready?"

"Are you fucking _kidding me?"_ I'm ready to beg like a bitch. _Loud_. I'll even open the windows and let the entire block hear me if that's what he wants.

The first thrust is slow and cautious, and my reaction is nowhere near subtle. It's meant to let him know he can skip that _careful_ bullshit. Hell, this bed can break right through the goddamn floor for all I care, I want him to fuck me until I scream, and keep fucking me 'till I run out of voice.

The upside of a partner you've been with for years? They know how to read you. _I hope the straight guy next door has earplugs._ Every word and sound outta my mouth is for Gallagher, and I need him to hear every syllable. I don't stifle, I don't muffle, I give zero shits at all about being overheard by anyone.

 _GodDAMN I love being out!_

Later that morning we go out for breakfast, and I tell the server my boyfriend wants pancakes.


	12. Taken

'He didn't leave alone.' The only thing I know about my partner right now, information courtesy of his shitbag coworker. First the skeevy motherfucker tells me Ian left the club with someone else, then he hits on me. Right away. In the next breath! _I don't know where the hell my boyfriend is, I'm worried as fuck, and you're tryin'a blow me? Why are gay men GROSS?!_ The guy has more than earned himself some hurt, so I kick him to the ground before I go.

He didn't leave alone.

It's running through my head on a constant loud-ass loop no matter what I do to distract myself. Whiskey? Nope. Shoot at stuff? Sorry, no. _He didn't leave alone. He didn't leave alone. He didn't leave alone. He didn't leave alone._ It gets worse and worse every fucking minute.

Is he getting high? Laid? Overdosing at a total stranger's apartment? Will they take care of him? Get him to a hospital? Is he already _at_ a hospital getting his stomach pumped or some shit? I'm sitting on the couch drinking when he _finally_ walks in the door. All fuckin' night I assumed that when he did finally come home he'd have an apology and goddamn explanation ready for me. Y'know, like a guy who knows he's pulled a shitty move leaving his lover clueless and worried for hours and hours and hours and hours and fucking _endless hours!_

Nope. Ian Gallagher strolls in and takes the minimalist approach. "Crazy night."

 _Seriously? Sorry fuckbag, you gotta keep talking._ I get up and follow him toward the kitchen."That what you call leaving the club with some fairy while I wait around for you like a bitch, huh?"

"You're welcome." He leans on the counter and tosses me a roll of money.

I look at the many, many fifty dollar bills in my hand and hope Ian didn't earn 'em doing anything too stupid. "Where'd you get this?"

"From the producer. Of the movie."

 _Hundred, hundred fifty, two hundred, two fifty, three hundred, three fifty,_ "What movie?" _please don't say-_

"I did a porno."

I gotta learn to stop being optimistic. Just fucking amputate that part of my brain. "You did what?" Apparently when I told him we needed money, his weirdass brain heard _'So absolutely say yes to any offer involving cash!'_ He's so fuckin' casual about it, too.

"Don't worry, the guy I did the scene with said he was clean." Like that'd be my one issue with him touching a dick that isn't mine or his own. _You trusted a total stranger, followed him to whereverthehell, fucked whoever he told you to, and didn't even use a CONDOM?!_ I'm nearly fucking speechless, it's so nuts. _Nuts._ I think. _Yup, that's the word. Nuts, crazy . . ._

 _. . . insane._

I do a quick mental inventory of what he's been like the last few weeks. The compulsive cleaning, constantly horny, stealing all those fucking suitcases, barely sleeping. It's just like Fiona and Lip said it'd be. _Great job ignoring the obvious, Mick!_ Yeah, I was getting _a little_ concerned, I've been out-fucking-standingly, irresponsibly un-worried. And now here we are. _It's not a disaster yet,_ I think. _Just get his ass to a doctor. Now!_

I tell him to pack his shit, that I'm taking him to a hospital, and I can tell for a second he thinks I'm kidding. _Does he seriously not realize how far off the rails he's gone?_ I know he doesn't. Not one fucking bit. He tries to brush me off and walk away, so real quick I pin him to the wall and make his current lack of options very, _very_ clear. _One way or another Ian, you are gonna have a nice long talk with a doctor._

He puts his hand over mine, and I ease off.

"I didn't know how important this was to you. Let me take a shower. Grab a few things."

He sounds so hurt, I wish I could back down. But I can't. He'd never have spun this far out of control if I'd listened to his sister from day one, and I gotta make up for that. I'll kick his ass all the way through treatment if I have to, and apologize after the docs get him healthy again.

I light up a smoke, sit down on the bed, and listen to the shower running. _Therapy can get him right,_ I think. _Therapy, maybe some meds, but yeah. Docs deal with fuckin' bonkers basket case people all the time, Ian. I'm sure your thing is totally simple._ I tell myself. _Manageable._ I take a long drag on the cigarette and keep trying to convince myself that I'm not worried. I know we'll both feel better once we sit down with a doctor, get some solid information to work with. _There's no reason to wor-_

 _The door._ I hear the front door shut. And I _don't_ hear Yev's baby-chatter anymore. _FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK!_

 **. . . Only twice** in my life have I ever spent a whole entire night sobbing into my pillow. When dad caught Ian and I together, and when he left me to go play soldier. So tonight makes three. Every time I think I'm all cried out, there's more. Cry, intermission, cry, intermission, cry; over and over again. It makes me fucking dizzy. Sunrise is starting to happen by the time I finally manage to get in a few hours sleep.

 _Please be okay,_ I think later that morning, breathing in the smell of him left clinging to the pillow. _Please be okay, please keep Yev safe, please come back, please get better, please don't leave me._ Like he'll hear my thoughts if I'm just fucking desperate enough to make it happen.

 **. . . Lip drives.** It's me, him, and Deb headed for a jail in Terra Haute, Indiana 'cause that's where Ian is. Had some kinda mental breakdown, apparently. Full-on incoherent babbling and shit. _I'll never let him get this bad again,_ I promise myself. _It's a disease, there's treatments. Done._ Therapy, meds, whatever, I don't care, I'll make sure he stays on point. Doctor's orders all the fucking way.

Sitting in the station waiting for them to bring Ian out, I'm not sure what the hell to expect. _Will he be pissed at me? Depressed? Will he care at all?_ I need to see him, and it feels like it's taking forever. He's somewhere in this goddamn building, it ain't a big place, how the fuck long does it take to unlock a door? I'm starting to worry the cops have changed their minds about releasing him, or there's a glitch in the paperwork. Some bureaucratic bullshit holding things up. I'm on edge, like I got ants crawling under my skin, until _finally_ I see him and one of the officers through the bars, headed our way. He's slouched over, looking at the floor.

I know Sullen Ian. I've met that guy. The day I got married, for instance. Not a happy day for him. But this Ian is a whole different thing. When he looks at me, it's beyond _sullen._ His eyes are like a million miles of slow death. He falls asleep in the car almost right away, which gives Lip and I time to talk about what the hell we're gonna do about this stupid fuckstorm of a situation. You'd think there'd be a legal way to freakin' _force Ian_ to seek treatment, but apparently laws are stupid. He'll practically have to hold a knife to someone's throat before the courts order him to do jack shit. Our best bet is convincing him to check into a psych ward on his own. No court, no judge, no cops hauling him through the door in handcuffs. Voluntary commitment.

A little while after Ian wakes up, we pull off to the side of the road. We're in the middle of Nowheresville, nothing but trees and fields all around. I hold onto Ian while he and Lip talk.

"It's not like you'd be walking into a prison," says Lip. "They can't force you to stay if you're there by choice. But . . . things are pretty far off the rails right now, so you need a few days deep treatment, buddy." He ruffles Ian's hair. "Get your brain back on track, make a plan."

"I'm not dangerous," Ian mutters, looking down at his hands. He turns to me and repeats it. "I'm not dangerous."

"It's the disease that's dangerous," I tell him. "What if the next episode is worse than this, huh? I don't wanna see you go through that." He's on the verge of crying, so I brush away a few tears before they fall. "None of us do."

"Exactly," says Lip.

Deb reaches back to squeeze Ian's shoulder. "We just wanna get you healthy."

He looks at his sister, then turns to me again. "Can't we just go home? Please, Mickey, I miss my bed."

He sounds like a tired little boy. _Do not cave in._ I choke down a huge lump in my throat. "Guys, d'you mind getting outta the car for a minute?"

Deb glances at Lip. Lip nods. "Yeah, man. Sure thing. The baby too?"

"If you don't mind."

"Nah, 'course not."

I watch them stroll down the road for a second before getting on with the worst conversation ever.

"I miss my bed," Ian whines again, scooting close until his leg slides up over mine.

"Yeah, I miss you being there." _Do not lose your shit, do NOT lose your shit! Stay. On. Track._ "I really, really . . ." I stop and wince. I'm thinking about going home tonight while Ian sleeps someplace else, and it's making me feel sick. ". . . but I can't be selfish about this, Ian. You gotta get treatment for whatever this is. We let the doctors have you for a few days, let 'em figure out what's up, and they'll give us a plan. That's all we need." I shrug and try to smile. "Just a plan."

"Just a plan," Ian takes a deep breath, and for a split second the look on his face is somewhere within reaching distance of familiar. "Doctors and plans . . . you really think they can make me normal again?"

"When were you normal?" I tease, hoping to see another almost-familiar expression. The right corner of his mouth twitches a little, and I think: _Good enough. I'll take it._

His head drops onto my shoulder and I feel him sigh while he snuggles against my throat. I put my arms around him and close my eyes, _dreading_ what I'm gonna have to do when we get back to Chicago.

"Few days?" He mumbles.

"Mmhm," I nod, trying not to focus on how good his breath feels against my skin, and how I'm not gonna feel that tonight. "A few days. No big deal." There's a long silence. _Is he asleep again?_

"Okay," he whispers finally. "I'll go."

I took it for granted back when we were just Bang Buddies that I'd eventually be letting go of Ian. That fact was just a cold, hard reality in my bullshit slog of a life. The alternative was going full-on gay and being a real boyfriend, and fuuuuuuuuuck that noise. No way in hell. It was gonna be all great sex all the time until it ended, and then I'd just deal with it. Wait for another convenient cock to show up at some point. _God, I was stupid!_ That dumbass kid wouldn't have believed it if someone told him he'd eventually be willing to put himself through any and every kind of hell for Ian's sake.

I stay back a few feet when he goes to sign the papers. I've been holding my shit together pretty well so far, but a big part of me wants to yank the pen out of his hand and take him home like he begged me to earlier. _Best if you're not close enough to do it, Mickey. Just in case._ I see his hand hesitate. He turns to face me. I nod 'yes,' and he signs the form. We're seconds away from the worst part.

I watch him hug his family and say goodbye to Yev, but when he walks up to me, it's like . . . fuck, I don't know what it's like, but he tries to say something that sounds like 'sorry,' and heads toward the cage. That's what it looks like to me, the barrier between us and the actual psych ward. A cage. There's a nurse there waiting to take him in. I survived watching him sign the papers okay, but I can't let him walk through that door without holding onto him for just a few more seconds.

When I get my arms around him he actually hugs me back and presses his face against my neck. _I can't do this,_ I think. _I'm not fucking ready for this!_ I've always sucked at letting go of Ian, and I'm not gonna do it until I absolutely have to. "Can I go in with him?" I ask the nurse, on the tiny chance she'll say yes.

"No, I'm sorry."

 _Worth a shot._

I kiss him on the shoulder, and keep my hand on his back until he's out of reach. I wanna believe this is all just a nightmare, but it hurts too fucking much to be anything but real. _This is happening._ The cage door closes and I'm standing completely still, watching a total stranger take Ian away from me.


	13. Clearing Fog

I shut off the 7 a.m. alarm and smile at Ian's empty pillow. "Visiting day, babe. See y'soon." I hop outta bed like it's Christmas and head for the shower.

Most of my closet is ratty old shirts and hoodies, so I gotta dig for a button-down with no stains on it. Flipping through my options, I pause at a shirt Ian got me last month as a joke. Pink tee with bigass rainbow print saying: "My boyfriend made me wear this." He offered me money to put it on and wear it around in public, but I turned him down flat. I trace the letters and smile, remembering how he brought it up again and again throughout the day, tacking another two or three hundred dollars onto the offer every time.

I chuckle, and keep looking until I get it narrowed down to two choices. "What do you think?" I ask Ian's pillow, holding up the two shirts. "Black or gray?" I give the pillow a second to not respond. "Yeah, you're right, I wear too much black. Gray it is." _I can't wait to get to the nut farm!_ I'm so damn excited about this visit, even Svet's who-gave-you-the-fucking-right attempt to kick Ian out of the house doesn't bother me. I just shut her the fuck down and that's it.

Waiting for the Gallaghers outside the psych ward, I try not to feel creeped out. But it's a fuckin' _psych ward,_ man. Creepy by default. Even creepier is when we go into the visiting area, and one of the patients just sits there _staring_ at me. "Okay, you need to push the fuck back, nutjob!" I snap.

Fiona kicks me in the leg, and I feel like an asshole. It ain't like it's this guy's fault his head's fucked up _._ "Nah, it's cool," I say as he gets up to walk away. "Look it's fine, you can just . . . keep starin' at me, it's cool . . . " _I really gotta work on my crazy people manners._

I'm about to ask Fiona for advice on that subject when Ian finally shows up.

"There he is, hey!" She says, going to hug him. "How you doing, sweet face?"

He doesn't say hi, or how are you, or anything like that. Just asks if he's going home, without even hugging her back. I realize he's doped up, but he was sedated when we picked him up at the jailhouse, too, and he still responded to us like a fuckin' _person._ I try not to let it worry me.

Fiona tells him he can come home in a few days, and that she brought him pie. "And look who's here," she steps aside. "Mickey's here!" She's talking in this, like . . . cheerful Kindergarten teacher tone. It's weird, but I don't care. I'm focused on Ian.

"Hey," I smile, going in for a hug. "What's up?" He doesn't respond to me any more than he did to Fiona. In fact, going from the look on his face, I'm wondering if 'Mickey' was enough information. Like maybe I should keep explaining who the fuck I am. _("Mickey Milkovich? From southside? Your boyfriend? We started fucking when you attacked me with a tire iron, and it's turned into kind of a shitshow relationship? Remember?")_

Fiona suggests we sit down.

"Yeah," I nod, "lets fuckin' sit, yeah." Seeing Ian's condition has me way too freaked out to talk, so I sit back and watch while Fiona carries the conversation. Ian's contribution? A glazed stare. Not even a _stare_ , actually. Staring takes some fuckin' intention. This is more like . . . 'my eyes are looking this way just because.'

"Where's Yevgenny?" He asks.

"He's at home," I say. "He's totally fine." _So he does remember shit_. For a quick second I feel hopeful, but then he gets up and starts shuffling away without so much as a goodbye, and it's gone.

I hear Fiona ask him where he's going.

"I'm tired." Again, no goodbye, no see you later, just . . . silent shuffle-walk.

 _He's barely a person anymore,_ I think. I tell Fiona I'm gonna go, and get the fuck outta the building as fast as I can. The boyfriend who bought me silly shirts and made me laugh every day is gone. Seems like from now on he's either gonna be Sedated Zombie or Unstable Psycho. Those are his choices. Either way, Ian Gallagher is basically dead.

I yank the stupid pink pride t-shirt outta my closet when I get home, put it in the trash and walk away. But it's not good enough. I go back and toss it in the sink instead, douse the thing with whiskey, and light it on fire, gulping down as much cheap booze as my throat can handle while I watch it burn.

Everything feels better once the alcohol fog kicks in. Losing Ian feel less like the end of the world and more like . . . meh. Just a thing. A detail. A _shitty detail_ yeah, but oh well. _Planet's still spinning, right?_ I figure if my life is gonna keep happening one way or the other I'll just go on drinking and distracting myself with pointless activities until a not-drunk day doesn't feel so fucking awful. _It'll happen eventually,_ I think _._ In the meantime, my personal food pyramid is gonna be mostly beer.

A few days later my phone rings, and I know it's Ian. Today's his release date. I had planned to clear my whole day and spend every minute with him, but now I don't even bother looking at the screen, much less answering. _Why bother talking to a zombie?_

I'm naked and bullshitting around with my guitar when Deb comes stomping into my room. Normally I'd get pissed and tell her to get the fuck out, but I'm too drunk to give a shit right now. Even if the guitar wasn't covering my junk, I wouldn't care. Whatever

"Ian flushed all his meds down the toilet," she yells.

 _And?_ I keep my focus on the guitar. _This is my problem HOW?!_ She wants my help replacing the flushed drugs, but bitch is outta luck. Iggy only deals in shit people use to get _high,_ not sane. _Sorry kid, have a nice day._

And now for something the entire Gallagher family sucks at: taking a hint. Instead of leaving the naked drunk guy alone to do his thing, Deb interrogates me about what's up with me and Ian. Like our relationship status has got any fucking thing to do with his bipolar mess.

"I'm fuckin' busy, Peppermint Patty," I yell over the music. "Go whine to someone who gives a shit."

She turns off the music. I know better than to try to make a Gallagher shut up if they're set to lecture-mode, so I just stand there quietly and let her talk.

"Frank used to drink like this," she says. "When Monica was around and they would fight. He would angry-drink."

 _This isn't angry drinking, you dumb cunt,_ I think, _it's sur_ _vival-drinking!_

The lecture ends up way shorter than I expected. She just tells me that trying to drink Ian away won't work, and that's it. Speech over. She leaves.

I take a deep breath and sit down on the bed, looking at my open closet. Even though I never did or ever would have worn it, I miss the pink. The one streak of bright color in all my gray, and black, and brown. A whoooooooole muted wardrobe, with that _one_ special detail. _And you burned it._ Even through the booze fog, it hurts.

I'm still terrified of seeing a blank-ass 'nothing-and-no-one-here-is-real' type look on Ian's face again, but I know I'm gonna risk it. Go see him once I'm sober. Regardless the condition he's in, at the end of the day he's the detail that makes my life special. Makes me special. _So whatever the fuck situation we've got in front of us, I'm on it. We'll manage._

"Hey Iggy," I yell, pulling on a pair of boxers. "I gotta sober up _now,_ fuckin' pour me a glass of water!"


	14. Battlefield

I'm standing in front of my filthy bathroom mirror. One more pep talk before I head for the Gallagher house. "I don't care if Ian is still zombie'd the fuck out, or he gets pissed and throws shit at your head, Okay?" I tell myself. "I don't care if he's drooling on his shoes and talking to the fuckin' wall, your ass stays put no matter what!" I point at my reflection and stare _hard_. "No matter what." _Okay. I'm on this shit. Ready, set, dive. Deep end, motherfucker._

I fist-bump my reflection and leave.

The whole way to the Gallagher house I'm bracing myself for anything, from letting him hit me a buncha times, to being cussed out, to being totally ignored. _Who knows._ The only scenarios I don't consider are ones that end with me going back to my place. _Every pig in America will take flight before that fuckin' happens._

He's in bed facing away from me when I step in the room. I don't say anything until I'm close enough to see that his eyes are open. And when I do speak up, I keep it simple. "Hey." I'm ready to be ignored. I'll either curl up next to him without another word, big-spoon style, or hell, sleep on the floor if he shoves me away. I don't care. When he rolls over to look at me, it's better than I hoped for. He's _there._ Kinda. There enough, anyhow. He's looking _at me,_ not _through me. Whatever, I'll fuckin' take it_.

"Sorry I'm late."

He doesn't say anything back, so I gotta read body language to work out how he feels about me being here. _Relieved_ _,_ I think as he settles back into his pillow, still looking at me. _At me_. Not _through_ me. It's a really fucking important difference. All things considered, this is going a lot better than the scenarios I braced myself for on the walk over.

 _I'm facing this shit,_ I think as I climb into his tiny-ass twin bed. I made it through the front door, up the stairs, into his room, and now I'm _finally_ next to him again. Yeah, he's still pretty fuckin' obviously got problems, but at least he's aware. At least he wants me here. I know he does, I can feel it. I touch his face, and prop myself up enough to kiss his forehead. _I love you. I'll take care of you. We'll be fine._ That's what I keep thinking it as his eyes flutter closed. _We'll be fine, we'll be fine, we'll be fine . . ._

It's several hours before I fall asleep, but I'm not trying to. I'm busy watching my boyfriend sleep. I snuggle close and stroke his hair when he squirms, and think about how hard I'm gonna kick ass dealing with this whole bipolar thing. _I'm gonna be a rock star partner, Ian._ I think, proud of myself. _I'm not gonna let you down, or break, or run away, or let you give up, or . . ._

. . . I dream about cartoon squirrels taking over the government.

"MPs!"

 _Huh?_ "Huh?" It's morning, and Ian is looking out the window through the blinds.

"They're coming! Wake up!"

"What are you talkin' about? Come back to bed."

"No, I can't let them get in the house!"

He runs outta the room in a panic, and I know I've just clocked in for work. _Stay calm,_ I tell myself as my feet hit the floor. _Don't get in his face unless you have to._ Obviously he's having a delusion, but getting mad or calling him crazy doesn't feel like the way to go. Even if it did snap him out of the _delusion_ part, he'd feel attacked, and that's not what I want. This is straight up guess work right now. I'm trial-and-error-ing my way through how to handle a manic episode, and hoping for the best. _What the fuck else can I do?_

By the time I get downstairs, he's at the back door clutching a baseball bat, telling Fiona they're gonna take him away.

"No one is comin' for you!" _Facts,_ I think. _Just state facts._ Before I can say anything else the bathroom door opens, and Ian takes a big swing. Lucky for Deb, the bat hits the door instead of her head. I'm relieved when Ian freezes, obviously fuckin' shocked. It means he's _aware_ thatit's Deb standing in front of him, and not some menacing army dude. _Who knows how deep a delusion can get, right?_

As long as he's kinda back to reality, I figure now's the time to step in.

" _Hey,"_ I get between him and Deb, and take the bat out of his hand. "Hey, there is _nobody_ out there, fucking look!" He jumps away when I unlatch the door and swing it open. Then I take his arm and head for the front door. He's still scared, breathing hard and all that, but he is letting me lead him without a fight. "Look." I open the door and step aside. He stands in the doorway, looking out at the normal, non-threatening street, and I watch him absorb what's just happened.

He steps back and I shut the door. "We gotta get you to a fuckin' clinic, get some meds. Today."

Frank chimes in with "Don't do it," but Fiona tells him to shut up, which is way more polite than the 'zip your fucking mouth, y'dumb drunktard,' I was gonna go with.

Ian stands there all quiet, and his eyes slide from Deb, to Fiona, to me. The look on his face is like . . . it's beyond just guilt about attacking Deb _._ He feels foolish, I can see it. 'Delusion' in his mind equals 'I'm a moron.' I'm sure that's what he's thinking. I step close, tell him it's gonna be okay, and we head upstairs to get dressed.

"I'm sorry, Mickey." he says as soon as the bedroom door closes behind us. "I don't know why I thought-"

"Not your fault." I cut him off.

"But I feel so _stupid."_ His voice shakes and his eyes are welling up.

I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him close. "It's the _disease_ , Ian. Not your fuckin' fault. No one thinks you're stupid. And guess what?" I nuzzle him and dust little kisses on his mouth.

"Hm?" He asks, somewhat responding to each kiss. Not by a whole lot, but hey. We're out of the zombie zone, at least.

" _Meds,"_ I say with a little smile. "Meds are what's up, Gallagher. We go get you hooked up with some treatment, and we're all set. I'll even buy us breakfast after."

"Yeah," he sighs as his face gets all red, "or you could just date a regular, healthy guy."

"Don't fuckin' talk like that!" I say, kinda snapping at him, which I didn't mean to do. _Too late._

"Why not, Mick? It'd be so much easier . . . " his voice trails off, and I freeze up. He's about to full-on cry, and I don't know how to handle it. "You don't need this bullshit . . .

. . . _and here come the tears. Fuck!_

Normally I'd just _tell him_ to stop crying 'cause there's no reason, we're fine, but right now I'm pretty sure it would make him feel even worse. Like I think all of his feelings are stupid or something. _So what do I say then?_ I'm floundering here, and I know it. _Get your shit together, Mickey!_

I put a hand on his chest, over his heart, and slide my other arm around his neck. "Ian listen to me. Please. Really fuckin' listen _. . . ._ if I gave a shit about _easy_ , you and I woulda never lasted five days. Got it?"

"But-"

"I pick you every day," I cut him off again, gently this time. No snapping. "Every fuckin' day. And you don't gotta apologize to me for being sick." I don't know if it's exactly what he needs to hear, but I can't think of anything else to add, so I run my hands through his hair and kiss him over and over while the crying stops. The deeper I kiss him the tighter he holds me, until I'm afraid I might crack a rib. "Clinic," I remind him, squirming out of his arms. "I like where you were going with that, but clinic time now, frisky time later."

"Fine," he sighs , and heads for the sock drawer.

 _Shoulda fucked,_ I think a few days later as an unfortunate reality becomes clear. Our sex life is gonna take a biiiiiiiiiiiiig downturn while Ian's body adjusts to the meds. Or while the docs _tinker around_ with meds and dosage until we find something that works. I'm not a big fan of this 'tinkering' bullshit, but whatever. As long as the end result is a stable, functioning boyfriend, I don't care if his dick stays soft for a year.

 _I actually kinda deserve this,_ it occurs to me mid-way through an attempted blow job that isn't going so well. Half the reason I ignored all the fuckin' obvious red flags the first time he started to go all manic was that the sex was amazing. And frequent. _Really_ frequent. _Good one, God,_ I think when Ian finally tells me it isn't working, and we give up. _I get it. I get the joke. Asshole._

Not all of Ian's treatment revolves around prescription meds. The clinic sent us home with a whole packet of information. General stuff, a list of do's and don'ts, suggestions, things to try. I've read through it like a dozen times, underlining the most practical stuff, and crossing out the shit we can't afford, like acupuncture and massage therapy. But apparently regular old vitamin supplements can make a difference, too. Especially B Vitamin. So I make that my Ian-care task for the day. Gonna go pick up some B.

 _It's one fuckin' letter!_ I think as I stand in the aisle staring at five thousand options. _Do the pharma people not understand how the alphabet works? Shit! Okay, how much money do I have right now?_ I have enough to cover one of every B variation, so I go all in.

I'm in the kitchen setting out the new vitamins when Ian walks in with a backpack and a huge bandage around his hand. He won't tell me what happened, isn't worried about it, and does not seem to care at all about my fuckin' concern. He's going somewhere, and I'm invited. That's all he'll tell me. _Man, I hope he levels off soon,_ I think as I follow him out the door. This 'emotionally flat' phase is just another part of the adjustment process, I know that, but it's rough. It actually upsets me more than our lack-of-boner issue. Sex life or no sex life, I need us on the same page ASAP.

We walk for about twenty minutes, and when I realize where he's taking us I perk up. The baseball field.

"Jesus, I haven't been here since that time we banged." I smile. He's trying to recreate a specific moment of ours, and that's a really, _really_ good sign. It tells me he does still give a shit about some things.

"Let's do some pull-ups."

"Your hand, man." _Was there any point to mentioning that? Really?_

Ian grabs on to the bar, and drops after one pull-up. "I'm outta shape."

I open my mouth ready to tease him about being a fat old man, but then I see what he's getting out of the backpack. Beer. _Christ, Ian._

"Shotgun."

"Nah, no look, you're not supposed to drink on lithium," I remind him. "It makes your blood fuckin' toxic and gets you hammered in like two seconds flat, you can't-" and then I get punched in the face. "The _FUCK_ , Ian?!"

He says he's sick of my 'whiny pussy crap.'

"I don't need a fuckin' caretaker, all right? I need the shit-talking, bitch-slappin' piece of southside trash I fell for. Where is he?" He shoves me into the fence. "Where the fuck is he, Mickey?"

"Fuck you!" I shove him back. "And fuck me for givin' a shit, you prick!" It's a long time since I've been this pissed off at him. _This is what I get for taking care of you?_

"Give all the shits you want, but the next time dick is limp from all the meds, don't go all 'aw, it's okay, wah wah, just suck it harder you _faggot!"_

 _Oooooooooooh, you're fuckin' DONE, buddy!_ Sorry, but I ain't gonna let having a disease give him a blank check to shit all over me. I'm not a doormat. _You wanna do this? Fine!_

It's on. I punch him twice in the face, he grabs onto me, and we go stumbling out into the field, punching and pulling at each other. He pins me to the ground first, and gets in a few good hits before I manage to break free and get on top. I hit him a few times, and grab him by the throat. He's got his hands around my throat, too. I fall to the ground, hold on to him for a few seconds . . . and then we both let go. The fight just _ends._ No discussion, no apologies, nothing. It's fucking bizarre.

Ian gets up first. I follow him back to the where we were before, and decide to give up on acting like a responsible adult for the time being. I mean I just beat up my boyfriend, responsible adulthood is kinda off the table as an option. We both shotgun a beer like he wanted to in the first place. _The doctors would be so annoyed right now . . ._

I look at Ian and chuckle. His beer sprayed out when he knifed it, so now his hair is all damp on the one side.

"That's the first time I've felt anything since uh. . ."

 _Yeah._ I kinda figured that's what the fight was about. Him needing an extreme to dig under the layers of medication and find an actual _feeling_. Sure pain is a sensation, not a feeling, but when a guy's been basically numb for too long, it's close enough. It counts. That I know from experience. It's all kinds of unhealthy, but I wonder if semi-consensual violence is gonna end up being a regular thing with us, because that could be a whole other issue. _Whatever,_ I think. we'll wor _ry about that shit later, man._

Meanwhile Ian does seem to be _feeling things_ at the moment, so I decide to take a little gamble. See if it pays off. I tell him he looks like a wet rat, and move in for a kiss. _Smart gamble,_ I think as he responds. We take off our jackets and keep fooling around.

A few minutes later we're in the dugout, pants unzipped, grinding against each other. I know it's broad daylight out and we're one strolling pedestrian away from a public indecency charge, but I don't care. I can't hear anyone close by, and Ian feels too fucking good. Rocking his hips, clutching my ass. For the first time since going back on the meds, he's eager, participating. And _hard._ He could ask for anything right now and I'd say yes.

"Wanna fuck?" He breathes against my mouth.

 _How is that even a question?_ I turn around without a word, nudging my pants down and pushing my ass against his cock. Before this happened, I was prepared to make due with occasional sex toys for months if necessary, but now with Ian all worked up and ready to go, I'm greedy. _Who knows how long it'll be before he's able again, right?_ "Do it," I whisper. "Fuckin' do it! Now!"

"Okay."

I groan and claw the wall as he eases a few fingers inside me slow, slow, slow. We're working with only pre-cum for lube, so he's being extra cautious. It's sweet. For a few minutes. Then I get impatient and start rocking my hips to let him know it's okay to speed up.

"Got it." his teeth graze my ear when he talks. "How about . . ." he bumps my legs with his knees, nudging them further apart. I close my eyes and shudder as his hands run up my back, to my shoulders, then down again, to my waist, where they pause.

" _Fuck!"_ I yell way too loud when he grabs my hips and starts thrusting. I gotta bite my lip to keep quiet. Or quiet- _ish._ "Aw _fuck,_ Ian," I'm panting, "Christ, you feel good!"

"You too," I barely hear his voice say the words. _When did he get so good at being quiet?_

I've got my fist against the wall, mouth pressed to the back of my hand as hard as goddamn possible to muffle the pretty unmistakable fuck-noises comin' outta me. _Shit._ My only hope is that if someone does get within earshot of us, they _choose_ not to investigate. Just keep their distance and move along. Y'know, manners.

We slump against the wall together when it's over, all his weight against me, breathing hard. Eventually we slide to the ground and I sit between his legs, leaning against his chest.

"Do I make a comfy chair?" He asks as I rest my arms on his knees and light up a cigarette.

"You're cozy," I smile, with the cigarette clenched between my teeth.

"Have we ever had a public quickie in broad daylight like this?"

I laugh. "Dude, we've fucked in public like a thousand times."

"Yeah, in the middle of the night when there are no joggers out, or fuckin' soccer moms taking the dog for a walk!"

I think about it for a second . . . "high school bleachers," I say finally, kinda surprised I almost forgot about one of our former 'spots'.

"Oh, right," Ian takes the cigarette from me. "Wow, that feels like forever ago doesn't it?"

"Mmhm." Ian holds the cigarette up beside me and I tilt my head back so I can take a drag. "I can't fuckin' believe we never got caught."

"Seriously." Ian chuckles. "I always thought it was weird you were willing to risk it, with being so deep in the closet and shit." I lean into it when he nuzzles my temple. "Guess I was just that good, huh?"

I elbow him in the gut. "I was probably half in love already." I shrug. "Or all the way in love, fuck if I know. Honestly? I spent so much time sitting around wanting you it's goddamn amazing I ever got anything else done." I take another drag and stare at the horizon. It's sunset any minute.

"Teenage love, man," Ian sighs. "It's tough."

"Battlefield," I correct him. "Love is a Battlefield."

"Nice reference!"

I shrug. "Gotta love that old school Pat Benatar shit. Anyhow, that song always reminded me of us, y'know?"

Ian giggles. It's his drunk giggle. _One beer? Wow._

"Aw, Mick! Please, _please_ tell me you'd blast it on repeat, angst-ing out about us!"

I take the cigarette from him and fiddle with it, trying to bite back a grin. "It mighta happened."

"HA!" Ian whoops, and I'm so fucking happy to have him in such a good mood. It's been a long time. "What a girl!"

"Fuck off!" I laugh.

"Did you have all the lyrics memorized?"

It's dark by the time we start stumbling back to his place, belting out Pat Benatar at the top of our lungs. I'm sure the neighbors fucking hate us, but I'm still so happy, I don't care. Ian's happy. Everyone else can fuck off.

We're almost home when he points out that we've never actually been on a real date. _Finally,_ I think. _An easy-to-solve problem! First date, comin' right up!_ We go on yelling the lyrics to Love is a Battlefield as we climb the stairs, and I'm already looking forward to a nice rare steak.


	15. Within Reach

Dumped and arrested for attempted murder in the same day. Almost the same _minute._ Why not. And the trial's a fuckin' joke. My bullshit public defender doesn't even try to argue the charges down to something a little closer to what I actually did. Like . . . okay, I did drug the bitch with intent to harm. So . . . assault. That'd be a reasonable charge. Hiding what I thought was her dead body would be like, I dunno . . . reckless endangerment or something? Obstruction of justice? _Don't these fuckers gotta prove INTENT to murder?_

I guess not.

Fifteen years is the sentence, which means almost zero chance I'm still behind bars in ten. _Five years._ I think. _Maybe eight if I'm not so lucky._ Whatever. Shit, even without this whole Sammi fuckstorm of a situation, it was always a pretty safe bet I'd spend some time bouncing in and out of jail. Scams, theft, blah blah blah. Five to eight is more than I ever fuckin' imagined serving in one go, but it's not like I'm going from a mini-mansion in an upscale neighborhood to prison. Adapting to life inside after growing up in the shithole that is southside Chicago ain't what I'd call a big ask.

What starts wearing on me is the one/two punch of being stuck in a cage _and_ getting my head around what's going on with Gallagher. In the few seconds before Sammi came after me with that gun I was upset, but in the back of my mind I was sure this 'breakup' wouldn't be final. Tough to get through, yeah, but down the road a few weeks . . . ? Maybe a few months . . . ? It'd turn out to be a minor hiccup while Gallagher accepted that he fuckin' _needs the meds._ Meantime, I'd stay on the outskirts of his life while he got his head around shit.

But I can't do that behind bars. I'm not within arms reach. Not a phone call away. I can't be there to nudge him along, show up when he needs solid ground, or a shoulder, or hell even a swift kick in the junk! I can't remind him _what we are._

He comes to see me a few times during the trial, but half the time he's got that faraway look. Half sad, half numb. _If I could just touch him,_ I think. When he dumped me, I didn't even have time to step in close, to try to put my arms around him before Sammi showed up. So I'm stuck settling for zero physical contact and stilted conversation through a thick pane of glass, and it's hard to ignore everything I'm not getting from him. No 'I love you,' no 'we'll get through this.' Hell, he never even asks me if I'm okay.

Even then I don't fall into a fuckin' misery-pit the way I would have if this was a few years ago. I'm optimistic. _We'll just get back to normal slower than we would have,_ I think. _By the time they let me outta here, it'll be like we never broke up._

 _. . ._ but that can't happen if he's not coming to visit. A week after the verdict he tags along with Svetlana and talks to me for a few minutes, and five months later I've realized that was _it_ as far as he's concerned. I'm off the map. Might as well be on the moon.

 _FUCK!_

Without him visiting at least once or twice a month, being stuck in this fucking cage gets harder and harder to take. And I start to panic about him maybe moving on with some dude while I'm in here. I mean yeah, if we're talking _years apart,_ I assume he'll pick up fuckbuddies sometimes, but that's fair. I only abstain for the first few months until prison life gets to me and I start taking blowjob offers. Partly isn't needing the outlet, but it's also how the economy and social order work in here. Send me to college, I could write a fuckin' paper. A whaddayacall'em? Dissertation. _Too horny to focus? Fuck someone. Need a favor? Offer ass or suck a dick._

Before prison being with another man woulda made me feel like a cheating piece of shit, but now? The longer Ian stays away, the less likely it is he ain't getting laid. I know the guy, even without a manic up-swing, he's one _active_ motherfucker. So what the hell. Why not? A little something to take the edge off until the state needs to free up a few cells and kicks my ass out. Nah, it's not the sex that's bothering me (much) it's him really moving on. Putting our relationship behind him and finding someone else.

Nope. I realize I can't deal with so many years of prison life if I don't have a future with Ian to look forward to.

 _So let's say I break out,_ I start thinking. _I can plant myself in front of him again, look him in the eye, touch him, and ask him to run to Mexico with me._ Staying on the right side of the law here in Chicago without me, or going on the run together. I can see this going either way, but if he does shoot me down, at least I'll know. And I won't have to suffer in a goddamn cage.

My cellmate Damien and I plan for months. It goes by in a fuckin' blur. The worst of it is when I gotta seduce one of the lady guards so she'll help us. I convince her that once I'm free, I'll wait a few months before contacting her, and we'll run away together. It's a mean thing to do to the poor woman but as soon as she figures out that I used her, she'll get over me _real fast._ She'll hate me. So it's fine.

I'm kinda stunned how well I handle the slow fuckin' process of planning this shit. Finally, Damien and I pick a day and time. _Three months from now . . . two months . . . two weeks . . ._ all told, I've served nearly two years by the time I'm out.

I pay a guy to drop the burner cell in front of Ian. _You can do this,_ I think as I hit the button to call. _You can get him back . . ._

. . . _and here we go._

"Miss me?"

"Mickey?" I watch him look around for me.

"Meet me at the southshore docks in an hour. Drop the phone in the sewer." I hang up and head for the high school bleachers. I know Ian won't enjoy being thrown in a van with a bag over his head, but Damien convinced me that on the off, off, _off chance_ Ian called the cops instead of coming to meet me, it'd be better if I didn't give him the real meeting place over the phone.

However he reacts to seeing me, I'm ready to use it as a jumping off point. In a perfect world he'd run up and kiss me, but I sure as shit ain't counting on it. Good thing, too. He shoves me. I shove him back, and we end up holding each other by the shirt collar, and in that fuckin' second I can see he still wants me. It's a quick look, kinda flicks through his eyes real fast, but it's there. He's still mine. _Doesn't mean he'll come with you,_ I remind myself. Ditching your life and going on the run with an escaped felon is a lot to ask of a guy, in love or not.

When I tell him he should come with me to Mexico, there's that look again. _He wants to go with me._ I know it. Sure as I knew he wanted me the day I had him pinned to my bed, ready to shatter his face with a tire iron. _We can be like this our whole lives, Ian,_ I think. _Come with me._

I stand close, touch his face. I'm debating whether or not I should try to kiss him when Damien honks the horn. Our _gotta go_ signal.

 _Fine._ I make sure Ian has the next burner phone in hand before we drive off. When I call later that night, it rings for a long time before he finally picks up. I tell him where to meet me, and I'm sure he'll show up. I don't even know why the fuck I'm so sure, it's not like he flew into my arms declaring undying fuckin' love earlier. But I'm sure. He'll be there.

 _Do I hold back, or throw myself at him?_ Whatever I do, this is my one shot. Last shot. I go back and forth, but as soon as I see him there smoking his cigarette and checking the phone I gave him, I know. A future together may be what I want, but if he won't give me that, at least I know he still _wants me_. No fuckin' way he doesn't. I'm not gonna work up to it, or even ask. I'm just gonna grab on and kiss him.

I see how he's walking toward me, and I know we're on the same page. "C'mere."

For a few seconds everything is perfect. I'm kissing him, and god _damn_ does he respond.

Until he pushes me away.

"The fuck?!"

"You think my life hasn't moved on since you were locked up, Mickey?"

I remind him _why_ I got locked up, getting revenge on the cunt who handed him over to the MPs. _Remember that, shithead? God, I missed you!_

"I'm not pissing away my life!"

 _Oh, will you shut up!_ Maybe I'm high on how great it feels to be kissing him again, but I barely hear the bulshit coming out of his mouth. That's all it is, he's gotta know that. Pure bullshit. But he shoves me away anyhow, and keeps yelling. Mentions a boyfriend.

"Boyfriend?" _That is . . . fucking adorable._ If Boyfriend Guy factored into this _at all,_ Ian wouldn't be standing in front of me right now, and he knows it. "What're you doin' here then?" I ask. "Hm?" Maybe a little arrogant, but fuck him, right? _'Boyfriend' my ass. Quit wasting time!_

I've pushed the right button. He's kissing me, taking my jacket off, pushing me up against . . . whatever the fuck, a small boat or something? Raft? Some shit under a tarp. Almost two years I've waited for this. Everything matters. Every sound he makes, everywhere he touches me, the way his mouth and his breath feel on my skin. I'm hoping I can enjoy this all the way to Mexico and beyond, but just in case this is a goodbye fuck, I need to memorize every second.

We end up back in the van, and for hours and hours we're either fucking, fooling around, or nuzzled together quietly. Not much talking. _Maybe he hasn't decided what to do yet._ The next morning before he hops out of the van I ask if I'm gonna see him again. He kisses me in place of a reply.

 _. . . This is it._ I think later, driving toward the spot where I told him to meet me. I brace myself for the worst. Him not showing up at all, or that he just shows up for some 'final farewell' bullshit. I think I'd rather skip seeing him again at all, if that's the case. If we really are over, and he knows it, then why draw it out, right? _Just rip off the fuckin' bandaid._

I pull around the corner, and there he is. Right away I notice he's got a backpack. _Taking a trip, Gallagher? . . . Settle down, Mick. You don't know anything for sure._ I spent a lot of time on the inside feeling almost certain he'd run away with me, but now I refuse to let myself take anything for granted.

"Is this goodbye?" I ask. He doesn't answer. I'm so fucking nervous. _Just say something, Ian!_ He tosses his backpack through the open window, and gets in. _YES!_

 _I have a life again,_ I think as we drive away.


	16. Jump In

Somewhere in the middle of month three in Mexico, I start thinking about heading back to the border and turning myself in. I'm fucking _nostalgic_ for prison. At least in prison I had a future to look forward to. It dawns on me now, as I'm sitting at the end of a pier in a small town outside of Puerta Villarta, that even if Ian never once visited me on the inside as soon as I was released, all I'd have to do it re-enter his orbit and fucking wait. I wanna blame him for ripping everything away from me at the last minute, and making me this miserable, but really it's my fault. Asking him to walk away from his entire life just to be with me? _Check out the ego on me._

 _Obviously that wasn't gonna happen. Stupid FUCK! Why didn't I just wait out the sentence? Why couldn't I just WAIT?!_

The tide is up high enough to dip my toes in the water. _Just slide off the edge,_ I tell myself. But I'm worried I'll fight my way to the surface on instinct once the actual drowning starts. No, I can't swim, but I'm worried that if it was the difference between life and death . . . _nah. If I really wanna go that route, I'll have to tie weights to my shoes or something._ Which means doing it right now is won't work . It's broad daylight.

"You!" I hear someone close behind me whistle. "Whiteboy."

I turn around and see a lanky guy with a short white beard and skin like old leather. "I see you wandering around, many places." He makes a money sign with his fingers. "Need dinero?"

"Thanks, but I can only give out so many blowjobs a week," I say over my shoulder and turn back to the sea.

"And done enough cocaine from what I can tell."

I turn back to him, surprised. The line about sucking cock was supposed to scare him away. Send him running back to the beach before _the gay_ goes airborne and infects him. _Also, how the fuck does he know about the coke?_ Yeah, I've been on a steady diet of the stuff since my first week in the country, but how the fuck does this guy know? What, has he been following me around?"

The guy points to himself. "Fish merchant. I sell to many vendors at the market on Pasqualle street. Sometimes set up a booth for myself," he shrugs. "I live a few blocks away from that street. I know the area, take walks . . . stop for drinks here and there. I like where I live, but the less than desirable sorts of people do take over at night."

"Y'mean queers or junkies?" I ask without looking at him.

"Mostly drug pushers, reckless party boys . . . and what I believe you call 'dirty old men' in your country. I have seen you. My daughter began with cocaine. Graduated to heroin." He shrugs again. "It was the end for her. I hate to see the young, like you, with all your . . . _energy_ and _potential_ squandered in this way."

 _Now_ I turn and glare at him. "You got a point, y'preachy fuck?"

The weirdo squints in the sun, and grins at me. "I see you clear-minded often enough. The problem is not so bad yet. You are still . . . I think the word is 'dabbling.' The cause for this is aimlessness. You are adrift, yes?"

"I dunno," for the first time I look him right in the eye, and it makes me feel really fucking strange. He's got this expression I ain't ever seen before.

"Work." He points at me. "What you need is work to occupy your time," he puts a fist to his chest. "Give you purpose."

"Oooooooooh, is that all I need?" I'm half tempted to tell him all about my recent experience with having my heart torn out, stomped on, chopped up, and fed to dogs.

He nods. "To start." He says, in a tone that kinda implies I'm an idiot for asking. "The rest will come. My boat is dangerously close to, er . . . I'd rather she not die on the water, we'll put it that way. Anyhow, many things about her could stand to be . . . _refreshed . . ."_ he studies me for a second. "You help. I pay."

"Why?"

He shrugs again, walks over so he's right beside me, and holds out his hand. "I told you, I hate to see the gift of youth so wasted. My name is Alejandro. Come. We begin work now."

 _What the hell,_ I figure. _At least it's cash._

It turns out he's not bad company. The boat's name is Corazon de Angeles. It means Heart of Angels. He was right about it being nice to have work. And the cot on his boat may be uncomfortable as fuck, but it does get me out of the _literal_ crack-houses I've been crashing in.

Aside from the boat's mechanics, all but one of Alejandro's nets need repair. One of them is more 'hole' than net. I ask him if he's planning to transition to catching bigass sharks and whales 'cause everything else could swim right through, no problem. Not sure if he's just trying to puff up my confidence or some shit, but a few weeks into this gig Alejandro tells me I'm better and faster at net repair than guys who've been doing this shit for _years._

It's weird to find out I'm good at something that doesn't involve stealing shit or scamming anyone. Closest I ever came was being a pimp. Well, that and the five seconds I spent working at the Kash and Carry, but that was barely even a job. I stocked shelves, flipped through magazines, and got laid constantly.

We decide to give the boat a fresh coat of paint while we're at it, just for the fuck of it. We're sprawled out in canvas folding chairs on the deck drinking beer one evening when he points at me. "We sail next week. You come with me, yes?"

"Oh . . ." I fiddle with my beer can and scuff my shoe on the floor. "Uh . . . so this is probably a good time to mention I can't swim."

'Uuuuuuuuugh," he groans and shakes his head at me. "You _shit . . ._ fine, I sail with Lazy Oscar and his cousin until you learn."

"Learn?"

The old man leans close and points his finger right at the end of my nose "I take you to Marcos. He is excellent teacher."

I tell him I'm a grown fucking man, and I'm not getting in a pool with a bunch of five year olds to learn this crap.

"No, no. Marcos is down the beach about mile, and there is a pond not far from his home." Alejandro winks at me. "Only the birds and fish to tease you."

Two days later we walk down a dirt path from the beach to this Marcos guy's front door. As soon as he steps out, I have exactly one thought. _Please God, let Marcos be gay!_ Odds are slim, but when he shakes my hand, the way he smiles at me makes me think . . . _maybe?_ And that's where I'm fucking stuck. For weeks.

 _Maybe._

I can't go by physical contact. He's teaching me to swim, he's gotta touch me a lot. He's super nice to me, he but seems like the type of person who's super nice to _everyone._ It's driving me fuckin' nuts.

We're in the middle of the pond, and I'm doing it. Swimming circles around Marcos while he treads water.

"Muy bien!" He says. "I think you've got it. Tomorrow I take you out on my boat."

"Yeah?" I stop swimming and tread water next to him.

He nods. It's not a big fishing boat like Alejandro's, but it floats."

Marcos grins at me, and I grin back.

"So you're not my teacher anymore?"

He shakes his head, and there's that _look_ again. I've seen it a dozen times over the last month and a half. He's got such beautiful brown eyes, I'm worried they just _always_ look flirty.

"Dios mio, do I have to wait here all day?" He raises an eyebrow at me, but I'm still not sure I'm reading things right.

I'm so used to being wrong, this could just be more of the same.

Marcos sighs. "Perhaps I misread. Lo siento if I am not . . . your 'type.'"

"You're my type!" I meant to just say it, but it comes out as a full-on yelp. Now I'm embarrassed. I can feel myself blushing, which I hate. Blushing is for girls.

"Oh," Marcos says quietly, drifting closer to me. So close his nose is almost brushing mine.

I'm not sure how I'd describe what he smells like, but it's a really, really good smell. I clear my throat. _God, I'm self conscious as fuck!_ "Ahem. Um, I, yeah. I'm, you're like, you've-" _STOP STUTTERING!_ "We should go out." I have no clue why I picked those words. It sounded unromantic as hell. Like a business proposal. Not that you'd know it by the way Marcos is looking at me.

Several hours later we're on his boat. It's sunset, I'm underneath him, and for the first time in maybe my whole fucking life, there's not one damn thing I'd change. I'm ready to jump in.


	17. Water Rescue

**Mickey's time in Mexico continues . . .**

For about five months, if I'm not on the boat with Alejandro, odds are I'm someplace with Marcos. Maybe out on the water again. All the guys say I was born for the water. The other fishermen, I mean. And the guys at the Market. I'm making okay money, too. Enough to rent a single room adobe place near the beach, about a mile walk from where Marcos lives. It's more like a shed with a bed, bathroom, and the world's oldest stove and fridge, but it's enough for me. I don't need much. I'm saving for my own boat. Not a commercial fisher like Alejandros, just something to sail around in.

One night Marcos and I are curled together on his couch having one of those 'couple conversations.' Y'know, the kind where you bring up personal topics you don't discuss with anyone else. Marcos goes first.

"I am terrified of heights."

"I knew that," I chuckle and poke him in the ribs. "Try harder."

"You don't know why."

I scoot onto my side so I can look directly at him. "Something embarrassing?" _Please be a long story._ I still have no idea what I'm gonna tell him when it's my turn. _The fuck CAN I tell him?_

Marcos shakes his head, frowning. I don't like to see him frown. "Difficult, no . . awful day. I . . . I try not to think about it."

I get the feeling he needs a second to build himself up, and that's fine.

"You know I've spent time in the states."

I nod. "Yellowstone, the Pacific Ocean, Grand Canyon," I list them off. "All the biggies."

"I didn't mention New York," he says quietly. Quiet even for _him._ "I never mention New York."

Again, I just wait. I do hold his hands a little tighter though, because I can tell he's beginning to have a hard time. _Already?_ I think. _And the story just started . . ._ I wonder if he got gay bashed really bad, like put in the hospital. Or assaulted at one of the skeevy-ass clubs.

"I was twelve. There with my mother. One morning, we stopped by the workplace of an old friend of hers, someone she had gone to school with, to surprise her and say a quick hello. This friend was a waitress at a restaurant called Windows on the World. Have you heard of it?"

"Nah," I shake my head, wondering why Marcos thinks I'd know the name of a specific restaurant in New York.

"It was at the top of the World Trade Center. North Tower.

It's gotta be the last fucking thing I expected him to say.

"The view was amazing. I guess this friend had also met me when I was a baby, because she couldn't get over how grown-up I was. She fussed," Marcos rolls his eyes. "It was sweet. Anyhow, it was a quick visit. She and my mom made plans to meet up later, and we headed for the elevators. I thought we were on the fortieth floor when the noise came, but my mother says it was the forty seventh." He shrugs. "Who knows. What is important is that by blind dumb luck, the elevator doors were open just then. There were three other people. We all jumped out of the elevator. In the stairwell . . .there were places where the damage wasn't _so bad . . ._ other spots there was smoke, water from busted pipes I guess, debris . . . and it seemed like a million other people. I don't know what floor I was on when the second plane hit, but everything shook. I thought it was _our building_ again. I thought the tower would fall and bury us that second."

"Did you know it was planes then?" I ask.

"We heard so from others on the stairs. You would _not_ _believe_ the burns I saw on people who were still walking. I don't know how. People can do nearly anything, I think, when the alternative is death. Anyway," he takes a deep breath, and continues. "We are barely three blocks out of the building when the South Tower falls. Another terrible sound, and we are running for our lives. The cloud overtakes us, and the force blows me a long way down the street. I was a wispy little boy," he half-chuckles, "I could barely stand against a stiff wind. Anyhow, after the collapse my mother and I had to find each other in air one can hardly see in, or breathe through. It probably only took five or ten minutes of yelling out back and forth, but it felt like hours. We made our way south, hoping a boat would take us off the island." He stops and takes another deep breath. "We were beyond the reach of real danger by the time the North Tower fell, but my mother fell to the ground crying. Strangers helped me carry her to the water. I have never been more than two stories off the ground since that day."

He's not _crying,_ exactly, but there are a few tears. I brush them away, and adjust our bodies so we're laying on our sides facing one another.

"Do your friends here know that happened to you?" I ask.

"Some," he says, drawing his fingers through my hair. It feels good. "It is a very personal, painful . . ." he trails off. "But those to whom I am truly close? I tell." He kisses my face, and forehead. "I tell them all of my life. Open book." He gives me a small smile. "So what is your great pain, Michael?"

I don't even think about the words before they're out of my mouth. "I escaped from prison." A sane guy would be panicking about what I've just said, but for some reason I'm not. And neither is he.

"Hm . . ." Marcos scoots closer, and the hand in my hair travels down my back until his arm is around my waist. "Is Michael Smith your real name?"

I have to think about my answer. Michael is _a version_ of Mikelio. And as for Smith? I dunno, Milkovich just doesn't even feel like my name any more. That guy sucked. "It's not my _given name,"_ is what I settle on.

"I understand." Marcos looks at me for this long, silent moment, and I'm not sure what's going on. "Whatever you want to tell me of this story, you may tell me. Whatever you'd rather leave in the past, go ahead and leave it there. I will never ask you for anything more or less than who you are."

 _I can't fucking believe I found this guy . . ._ "I love you."

"Te amo, tambien." He says, smiling.

. . . Time goes by fast when life is good. I met Alejandro's grandkids three years ago, and since then I've been calling him Abuelo just like they do. And they call me Tio, which means Uncle. I work the water, have my regular merchants, sail with Marcos on my days off, go to Diego and Lula's school events (Abuelo's grandkids, my niece and nephew as far as they're fucking concerned), and me, Marcos, and a few other gay dudes even head into Puerta Villarta every now and then when we feel the need for City Time. Otherwise known as gay-with-less-worry time.

It's weird. Looking back, my life from ages 14-18 felt like a whole fucking decade. Now I can't believe it the day I look at my calendar and realize Marcos and I are already just two months shy of our four year anniversary. _Four fuckin' years, man!_ I'm wandering around the market thinking about what we should do to celebrate when one of the merchants flags me down.

"Aqui!" He calls out. "Michael, Aqui!"

"Como estas, Lopez?" I ask. The last few years I've started thinking in english and speaking in Spanish. Or Spanglish.

"Some whiteboy came through looking for you earlier."

I feel like someone just scooped out my guts and replaced them with a big block of ice. "Did he say why he wanted to find me?" I ask. "Was he wearing a suit?" I figure if there's a white guy trying to find me, it's probably a fed.

"No, no, no," Lopez shakes his head. "Tan pants and a blue t shirt."

"How do you know it's me he was looking for?"

"He described a white guy with black hair and tattoos on his fingers," says Lopez. "You're the only one of those I know. Anyhow, he said he was a friend of yours from school, so I told him to check the docks.

Either one of my shitsack cousins somehow tracked me down, or . . . "Lopez, did this guy have red hair?"

"Very red." Lopez nods.

 _Fuckfuckfuck fucking FUCK my life!_ No way could Ian have found me on his own. There must be at least a few other people who helped him track me down. _Cops?_ I wonder. I can't imagine him ratting me out, not even if he hated me, which I know he doesn't. _So why the fuck would he do this?!_

"I told him to look for the Vida Tranquila." He smiles at me. "You're never away from that boat for long."

"Heh, yeah," I put my hands in my pockets and try for a casual shrug. _No escaped convict here . . ._ "another ten months of payments and she's all mine. So, uh . . . I'm, I'm gonna go look for my, uh . . . my friend. Take care."

Lopez waves. "Manana."

"Si, por supuesto." I wave back as I walk away. _Off to the docks._ At least Ian will be easy to spot. Not a lotta redheads hangin' around this corner of the world. _You'll stand out like a sore thumb._

And he does. I spot him the next day wandering the docks, looking at boat names. He's in the wrong area though. My baby's a good five minute walk down the beach. I sneak up behind him as quiet as I can, and shout: "The fuck are you doing here, Ian?"

"JESUS!" He clears the ground by at least half a foot. I feel proud of myself.

"If you're working for the cops-"

"It's not what you think, Micky!"

I cringe. Haven't heard that name in years. _Didn't miss it._ "It's Michael now, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, I heard," Ian chuckles. "Michael Smith. What, was Alias McFakeName taken?"

It is nice to see him again. "Hey, Smith's an effective alias for a reason, dipshit!"

We stand there and smile at each other for a minute.

"So what brings you here?" I ask finally.

"Well . . ." Ian looks around us, steps close, and lowers his voice. "Wanna help us get your dad locked up for life?"


	18. Ethical Conviction

Where's the right place to have a conversation about whether or not I wanna testify against my worthless dad? About a quarter mile out on the water, that's where. I don't want anyone overhearing this shit. I clamp a hand over Ian's mouth so he shuts up.

"This is a boat conversation, Gallagher. Follow me."

"So . . . I guess you learned to swim?" He asks after a few minutes of silence.

"Mmhm. Boyfriend taught me."

"Ah. Boyfriend."

Something about the way he says it stops me in my tracks. "Aw _fuck,_ Ian, please don't tell me this is about getting us back together?"

"Oh, no," Gallagher shakes his head like I've just implied he prances around in prom dresses when no one's looking. "Nononono, no . . . noooooo . . ."

I can feel my eyes rolling all the way to the back of my fuckin' head. "Dude, you should never, everplay poker!" I tell him, raking a hand through my hair. "Sorry man, I'm not interested."

"Seriously, Mick-Michael. I didn't, I mean . . . okay . . . I thought, _maybe-"_

"Go home." I cut him off and try to walk away, but he grabs my arm.

"-but mostly it was the other thing!" He insists.

"Y'mean about my dad?"

"Locking him the fuck up _for life._ Yeah."

"I don't see how I could possibly help with that," I tell him. He's still holding onto my arm. "Anyways, if it involves turning myself in, then-"

"I'll explain everything on the boat, just . . . it's a long story, and it's really not what you think."

I clench my tongue between my back teeth and put my hands on my hips. My standard _I can't believe I'm considering this_ pose.

Eight minutes later I'm stepping onto the Vida Tranquila, but when I turn around Ian is still planted on the dock, staring all gape-eyed.

"What?"

"Um . . . are you sure this is your boat?"

"Yeah, I'm fuckin' sure. Why?"

I can _see_ the man's brain short-circuiting. "Dude," he says, "there's . . . there's a pride sticker back here." He points to the stern.

"Oh that," I grin. "Yeah, advertising is easier. Lets other queers know I'm in the club, homophobes keep their distance the second they see it, and no one else really gives a shit. I've dealt with a few Macho Mexi-men, but for such a fuckin' catholic country it's amazing how many guys fall into the 'don't give a shit' category."

Ian closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, I'm just imagining your old house with a big ol' pride flag hanging outside."

 _Okay, that is a weird image._ "Whatever. Hop on, man. I'm setting sail with or without you."

I stare at Ian while he taps his toe. And taps his toe. And taps his toe. "Okay," he says finally.

We're about a quarter mile out when I prompt him to tell me what the shit is going on.

He takes a deep breath and fidgets for a minute. "Okay don't freak out, but about two years ago I was approached by a guy named Agent Winston. He's FBI-"

"Swim!" I stand up and point to shore. "Now!"

"Terry killed a kid!" Ian yells with his hands in the air like I've got a gun on him. "Probably when you were about thirteen, which is where your testimony comes in." I'm so fucking confused, I freeze in place. Ian takes my silence as permission to keep talking. "All they care about is getting enough credible evidence for a conviction. They're willing to overturn the original charges against you, and have you re-tried for, like . . . way more minor charges instead, and maybe a year or two probation for the prison break."

I can't see the look on my face, but I assume it's screaming _they're lairs, you idiot._

"Seriously Mi-sorry, Michael. You might really, _really_ be able to help, and if not, I'll head back to the states and say I couldn't find you."

"Say what?"

Ian nods. "Yeah, that's the whole reason I was approached, they didn't want you getting wind of the Feds on your ass and rabbiting away. An outside private detective and I worked this, so if it didn't pan out they'd have plausible deniability or whatever the fuck." He looks me in the eye with that 'pure undiluted sincerity gaze' I remember from my closet days. All the times he wanted a little more from me, and a little more, and a little more, and I always gave in . . . "Please sit down and listen."

I do it. Slowly. "If they think my dad confessed to me about any of this shit, they're outta luck."

Ian takes a folded up photograph out of his pocket. Pre-teen blonde girl with a footbal (soccer ball) under her arm, and a big smile.

"Don't recognize her," I say before he has a chance to ask.

Ian nods, unfolding a second photo. "She would have looked like _this_ when you met her."

I figure this picture was taken at least four years later. She's wearing a lotta makeup, false eyelashes, low cut top showin' off the boobs, a tacky-ass rhinestone necklace. And I do kinda recognize her. "Ooooooooh yeah. Okay, um . . . yeah, I was twelve or thirteen. She crashed on our couch for a few weeks."

"Why?"

"Dunno, Dad said he knew her and she needed a place to stay," I shrug. "I was too busy being a delinquent to give a shit who he let in the door, so that's kinda all I know about her." I'm wracking my brain for more detail, but there's really nothing. "She was there until she wasn't, man. That's all I know. See? I can't help."

"After she left, like _right after,_ did Terry ask you to do something strange?"

"Something strange?" _That's vague._ "The fuck does that even mean?"

Ian grumbles something under his breath, and I can tell he's frustrated. "Like . . . give you a weird errand. I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to 'lead you,' or give hints, it could hurt the case."

I used to imagine seeing Ian again all the time. It was my number one fantasy for months. This was never what I had in mind. Bizarre as this conversation is, I can tell it's important to him. From the sound of it, he's invested kind of a fuckload of time. So I try. I comb through every petty theft, every mailbox raid . . . all standard stuff. But then something does stand out. I'm not 100 percent sure it happened right after Photograph Girl went away, but I think so. So . . .

"He gave me a container," I say slowly, "like . . . like an oatmeal tin, but totally wrapped in masking tape, fuckin' layers of it, and told me to bury it someplace far away from the house and never tell him where."

"YES!" Ian gets up and jumps around, hollering and fist-pumping the air like crazy. "That's _exactly_ what your dad told his friend he did-according to the friend anyway-you just corroborated! Fuck yeah! Oh _man_ this is good news!"

I'm so over being out of the loop. "The cops think he killed that girl? Okay, so what did I get rid of then?"

"Do you think you could find the place where you buried the container?" He asks.

"It's probably under a parking lot or building by now," I chuckle. "But maybe. "What's in it?"

"A necklace, two rings, some wadded up newspaper and uh . . . ten fingers."

 _I gotta sit down._ I'm lightheaded. Not sure why, though. Pretty easy to imagine my piece of shit dad killing someone. But the fact that it happened when I was a kid? And I kinda helped? Yeah, that's . . . even considering what my life was back then, it's dark.

Ian and I spend several more hours on the water while he tells me about the case. Background details.

When I was fifteen a friend of my dad's turned himself in to the cops. Said he'd accidentally killed his wife a few days back, freaked out and hid the body, but he couldn't fuckin' handle the guilt. Full confession, lead cops right to her, easy conviction. 35 years. Done, right? Except then two years ago this same friend of dad's found out he had cancer, and felt the need to clear his conscience even more.

Gutter Trash Etiquette is pretty clear about ratting people out: _don't._ But I guess it's a tougher rule to stick by when there's an outside chance you'll end up explaining it to God. The friend comes forward and says he had help hiding his wife's body. My dad's help. And the whole reason he called my dad instead of some other piece of shit is because he knew dad had already killed at least two girls and gotten away with it. The girl in the photograph being victim number one.

"Her name was Shannon Leary," says Ian. "She told your dad she was sixteen, and offered to trade sex for a place to crash."

"Sounds like Terry's type," I say. "What, did she stop putting out? Is that why he killed her?"

"No," Ian clenches his jaw and looks a little sick. "He found out her real age, got pissed, and beat her to death."

 _How young?_ I glance at the second photo, still in Ian's hand.

"She was thirteen."

"Christ," I mutter, hand over my mouth. "Jesus fuckin' Christ." I look at the first photo, realizing she's basically the same age in both. It's beyond belief. I feel sick. I'm pissed. And Ian's right, I could help. But . . . "The Feds. How willing are they to give me a good deal?"

He gives me that lopsided grin, the one that used to make my stomach flip over. "You've been a model citizen down here, _Michael Smith._ Meanwhile your 'attempted murder victim' is currently serving fifteen years for defrauding the elderly. What do you think?"

 _Sammi and her big dreams._

Ian goes on. "The lawyers we've consulted with say you should've been charged with assault, endangerment, and obstruction of justice."

 _THAT'S WHAT I FUCKING SAID!_

"You're in a sweet spot here. Your entire record is . . . well, a good lawyer can paint it pretty rinky-dink, and make you sympathetic as fuck considering what you grew up with. Also, the Feds really, _really_ wanna nail your dad in the worst way, so it's in their best interest to help make you smell like roses. I mean, look at this!" He holds up the pre-teen with footbal photo. "Adorable, wholesome white girl killed by child rapist who abused his own tortured gay son!" He scoffs. "The entire jury's gonna cum in their pants when they sentence him!"

"Tortured gay son?" I frown. "How the fuck does that factor in?"

"Terry's in rough shape these days," Ian sighs. "He comes off like a broken down small time crook who never had the balls for real violence."

I flash back to the day he caught me and Ian fucking. Then I imagine him seeing me on the witness stand, telling a packed courtroom exactly what he's capable of. In detail. _It'd piss him off,_ I think, _and the jury would see it . . ._

Then I think about Marcos, Abuelo, sobrino, sobriana, all the guys I work with, my market regulars, hell even my chicken (birthday gift from Marcos last year, fresh eggs are awesome.) I know helping put a child killer in jail is the right thing to do, but . . . shit, Terry's an old man now, and I've built a life for myself outta pretty much nothing.

"As far as anyone else knows, I won a month long trip to Mexico in a raffle," Ian smiles. "So if you need time to think about it-"

"Dual citizenship," I cut him off.

"What?"

"Go ask your . . . whoever the fuck if, after whatever probation sentence, I can have dual citizenship, and come home. Get me that deal."

"And if I can't?" Ian asks, chewing his lip.

I lean in close, and I don't fucking blink. "Then you never saw me."

He promises to do his best, and we head for shore.


	19. The Plea

Marcos and I clean the clutter out of my old shack together. I still use it sometimes when I know I'm gonna be heading out on the water real early. It's a shorter walk to the docks. We talked it over, and agreed that letting Ian crash here would spare him the expense of a hotel, so he'd have more of his per diem free for other stuff.

Marcos is excited to meet Ian. The 'misspelled tattoo guy.' He pretty much knows our history. First relationship, lots of angst, some bloodshed. Y'know, teenage love.

"Okay, babe. I'm meeting him at the market in twenty," I kiss Marcos goodbye and hop in the car. "Be back soon."

"Should I make Margaritas on the rocks?" He asks.

"You're perfect." I squeeze his hand through the open window.

As usual, Lady follows my car to the end of the long driveway before turning back. "Feathered freak," I mumble under my breath.

"Does your boyfriend know?" Ian asks as we load two mid-size suitcases into the trunk of the car.

"About my past, or this offer of yours?"

"Uh, both I guess."

I bring Ian up to speed on the drive back to his new digs. Marcos knows I'm a felon, knows I escaped, I've told him a few little details, but he's never once pushed. Yes, he knows why Ian is here, and if I do decide to testify against Terry I'm gonna tell him, and my whole family, everything before I go back to the states.

"Oh, by the way," I say as we turn onto the narrow road that turns into the narrower road that leads to my old shack, "I have a chicken who thinks she's a dog, her name's Lady. She makes a big fuss, but she won't scratch your eyes out or anything."

I glance sideways at Ian as he laughs. "S-sorry, you have a what who thinks she's a what?"

"Welcome to village life, city boy," I drum the steering wheel. "Here be chickens!"

"Named Lady." Ian nods.

"I was not going to name her, I swear, but as a chick every time she got underfoot-which was _always,_ I'd yell 'move it, lady,' 'get outta the way, lady,' 'outdoors only, lady.' So now she's Lady," I shrug. "She wanders between where you'll be staying and Marcos's place. Wherever I am for the night, that's where she fuckin' stays. We've got roosts for her at both places."

Ian raises an eyebrow.

"I told you, man, she thinks she's my goddamn dog!"

Marcos is waiting for us on the porch, a pitcher of Margaritas at the ready. I'm glad when he and Ian seem to get along. Relieved. _Ian's not gonna cause us any drama._ Before we head home, I show him where the light switches are (all two of them), point out the weird uneven spot on the floor so he won't trip on the way to the bathroom, and off we go.

"Is Lady staying with me?" Ian asks.

"No, she'll follow the car," I explain, opening the driver's side door. "We're literally three minutes down the path." I watch Ian laughing his ass off in the rearview mirror as Lady bombs down the road after us.

"So. Now you officially know someone from my old life," I say to Marcos as we climb into bed. "What'd you think?"

"I like him." Marcos nods, and laces our fingers together. "And I'm glad you told me about him being here. I do think . . ."

"Whaaaaaat?"

"Meh," Marcos shrugs. Not a serious shrug, more of a toss-off. "He seemed . . . a bit . . . to _pine_ somewhat."

"'Course he did." I nuzzle and kiss Marcos's shoulder. "I'm a catch!"

"Obviamente!" Marcos laughs. "It's your charming tattoos that really do it for me."

I laugh and give him another little kiss. "I'm sure the _pining_ is just a residual 'first love' thing. There's an obvious fix."

"I refuse to sleep with your ex!" Marcos insists, putting up a firm hand.

"Ew!" I close my eyes and try to shake the disturbing image out of my head. "No! Close though. We get him _laid,_ baby!"

"Ah."

"C'mon! He's here for basically a month, and I know you've got friends who love them some white boys!"

The next few weeks are surreal. Ian and I spend half our time meeting with a pair of independent investigators, one from the states, one based out of Guadalajara, hammering out _hypothetical_ plea deal details (the US Feds don't wanna know jack shit about where I am until everything's a solid lock). The rest of the time, I'm showing him around like he really is just here on vacation. It's like living in two fuckin' worlds. I'm just glad Marcos knows, so at least I don't have to lie to him. Actually, I wouldn't be doing this if it meant lying to _him._ He's my line.

On day twelve we round up a bunch of our friends and take a trip to the city to go bar hopping. And hopefully get Ian laid. I've pretty much _ordered_ my single friends to flirt with him, and he's responded . . . to a point. But then he pulls back. Like a guy with a buddy who suddenly reminds him _psst, you're married!_ But he hasn't mentioned anything about seeing someone, so I don't know what's up. I'm hoping the Puerta Vallarta big-city-club-vibe gets him more in the party mood.

We're meeting Luiz and a few of his friends at a hole in the wall bar called Anonimo. Luiz is Marcos's Ian. Kinda. They were never that serious, but he was the first guy Marcos dated openly.

I wave when Luiz walks in with his friends, and Marcos walks over to greet them. Little pecks on the mouth all around. From the corner of my eye, I notice Ian glance my way.

"What?" I ask.

"Uh . . . you're okay with that?" He asks, subtly indicating Marcos and his friends. "Your man kissing other dudes?"

"He's like that, they're an affectionate bunch," I shrug. "What do I care, he's comin' home with me, right?"

"Wow." I see all of Ian's front teeth on full display. "Amazing."

We go from club to club, and Ian is quite a popular guy. Dancing with Luiz, Dante, Jorge, several dudes I only kinda recognize . . .

 _Dancing_ eventually turns into writhing and grinding. It's good, but strange to see. Alien.

I'm at a six person table with Marcos, we're babysitting everyone's drinks. "Don't take this the wrong way," I tell him, "but . . ." I swivel my chair so I'm facing away from the dance floor. "I do hope he fucks someone soon, but it's weeeeeiiiiiiiirrrrrd to watch him work!"

"I understand," says Marcos, squeezing my hand. "Seeing Luiz date was _quite strange_ for me for a long time."

Every few days we do this. It's not always a late night/early morning party-binge, sometimes just a few drinks and home before midnight, but yeah. Our friends get to know Ian _real well._ I make a point of not asking for details.

On the last week of Ian's visit, we throw a bonfire on the beach.

"So you know the plan, right?" He checks in with me late in the evening.

"Yup. Agent Winston is flying here next week along with my legal team-" I shake my head, "Christ, I have a _legal team._ Anyhow, we start officially negotiating details of my plea deal, and hopefully I'm back in the states testifying sometime before next year!" I take a swig of my beer. "Legal shit moves a lot fuckin' faster on TV!"

"This has been two goddamn years in the making on my end!" Ian reminds me. "Quit bitching."

"Well . . . I'm glad you came, Gallagher." I clink my beer bottle against his.

"Yeah," he smiles at me. It's a warm look. Takes me halfway back to the old days.

"Go!" I insist, heaving him out of his chair. "Dance! Flirt!" I cannonball the rest of my drink. "Marcos had to leave like an hour ago, so I'm gonna head home and be old."

"Okay. Well," Ian folds his arms around me, and on instinct I breathe him in.

 _You've had too much to drink,_ I tell myself. "You know the shortcut to the shack from here, right?"

Ian points to a beaten down path barely visible beyond the firelight. "And flashlight," he pats the cell phone in his pocket. "I'm set." He hugs me again. "Tell Marcos I said hey."

"Will do." Ian's still got his arms around me, and my mouth is against his throat. I'm not _kissing him,_ it's just where my face landed when he pulled me in for the hug. My head starts to swim, and my pulse speeds way the fuck up even though I tell it not to. Later than I should have, I pull away and clear my throat. "Have fun." I gotta clear my throat again 'cause my voice ain't working right. Too shaky. "Go uh . . . go hit on Luiz, okay?" I turn and walk away fast. I don't wanna give Ian a chance to say anything _stupid._

 _You also don't wanna watch him dance with Luiz._ I order my beer-addled brain to shut up as I pull the car door shut. Marcos and I are usually the only ones who use the narrow dirt road to his place, but still. I drive slow and careful just in case. I've got plea deal negotiations coming up, the last thing I need is a dead drifter or something.

Marcos is in the shower when I get home. I change into pjs, get into bed, and read until he's out. _Another big difference between me and Mickey Milkovich,_ I think. _I read._

I'm on my way to sleep, and dream-life starts creeping in. _Why do I still smell Ian . . . ?_

 _. . ._ I'm sitting in a round booth, looking out at a nearly abandoned dance floor. Only a few couples swaying. Luiz is there. Marcos walks up, and kisses him on the mouth. No tongue, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he puts his arms around Luiz's neck.

"Weird," I mutter.

"But you don't _care,"_ a low voice mutters in my ear, "do you?"

It's Ian. I know without looking that it's him.

"Of course I care, he's my fuckin' _boyfriend!"_

Now I can _feel_ Ian next to me. Feel the heat coming off of him. "But it doesn't bother you." The stupid ginger shit giggles-actually fuckin' _giggles._ "Not like it would if it was _me_ over there."

"Will you _SHUT UP?!"_ I turn to face Ian, and the second I see him I wanna kick myself. It's like I'm fifteen again, and he's everything I know I'll never have. It kills me. I turn to face Marcos and Luiz again, only now I'm fuckin' _glaring,_ and good Christ are they making out!

"You'd break a guy in half for kissing me like that," says Ian. I feel his hand going up my back . . . to the hair at the nape of my neck, where his fingers sorta play . . . "wouldn't you?"

"Do whatever you want!" My voice sounds like it's traveling over sandpaper.

"I still love you," I feel his mouth on my throat, but I refuse to take my eyes off of Marcos and Luiz. "You _know_ I still love you."

"Too bad!" I shout. My eyes are welling up, and it has nothing to do with watching my boyfriend kiss another man. "You fucking left me! You left!" . . . little kisses all over my throat . . . "you _left_ . . ." at this point I'm whining. Suddenly the kisses stop, and instead I see Ian walking over to Luiz and Marcos. Only Marcos steps away, and Luiz reaches for Ian. "No," I say quietly, feeling like I might puke. Ian grabs Luiz by the shirt and pulls him in for what I can only describe as a _ferocious_ kiss. "NO!" I yell, flying bolt upright in bed as the word leaves my mouth.

Marcos squirms next to me, mrmmphing out a few sleep-syllables. _The man could sleep through a fire alarm._

I run my hands through my hair, trying to catch my breath. I'm sweaty, and angry. Angry at myself. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ I look down at Marcos, and think about our life. Birthdays together, regular days together, gifts exchanged, jokes shared, watching Diego and Lula together. _This is a LIFE._

My mind is made up. I wanna be Ian's friend, and maybe we'll get there someday, but right now there's too much fuckin' baggage. _We can keep in touch online,_ I think as I pull on a pair of pants and slip into my shoes. _Figure out how to be buddies . . . yeah . . ._

I'm walking down the road, squinting in the murky pre-dawn light. _So what do I say?_ I don't want him to think I _hate him._ That's not it. I'm just . . . protecting what I have. _I need to protect what I have!_ So Ian and I need distance, at least for a while. I can't let an old relationship ruin what I've built here with Marcos. I can't.

So now there's just figuring out what exactly I'm gonna say. By the time my place comes into view, I've got a rough idea. 'I need to do this long distance until it feels natural,' I'll explain. 'You and I went straight from tryin'a kill each other to being fuckbuddies. We never did friendship, sooooo . . .' _something along those lines,_ I think as I knock on the door. It is my place, but I don't wanna barge in and scare him.

I hear someone moving inside, and something dawns on me. _I can't fucking BELIEVE I'm just now realizing this!_ There could be another guy in there with him! Shit, the way Marcos and I have been pushing Ian to fuck someone, there's _probably_ another guy in there! _SHIT!_

The door opens, and it is Ian, but he's holding the door tight, so just a sliver of his body peeks through. He's wearing only boxers. Now I'm boiling. Fucking _boiling._

"Michael?" He grumbles, confused. "The fuck time is it?"

 _You have to leave, Ian,_ I'm yelling in my mind. _Sorry, but you gotta go. It's the only way-_ "Kick him out!" I hear myself say.

"Huh?"

My heart goes fuckin' apeshit as I realize what I'm doing. "Whoever the fuck else is in there, Luiz, Santiago, Antonio, Carlos, I don't give a shit, they're done!" Ian's mouth is hanging open, kinda flapping in the breeze, and a _really gross_ thought suddenly occurs to me. "Oh god, don't tell me it's all of them!"

Ian lets the door fall open, and I can see the bed behind him. It's empty. Bathroom door is open, too. No one in there either.

All the energy drains out of me, and I sag against the doorframe, gulping down air like I've been underwater. I feel happy and ruined at the same time. It's beyond _relief._ Ian is right there, within arm's reach, and we made it. We've survived. _All this bullshit,_ I think as he pulls me through the doorway and smashes his mouth into mine. _We survived. So much crazy BULLSHIT!_

Something in a frame falls off the wall and I don't care. Lampstand bites the dust, don't care about that either. The dining table stays upright, but gets shoved out of the way. I end up naked, sitting on a tiny sliver of counter space next to the stove. Everything I was wearing came off somewhere between here and the door. Fuck it all.

I'm with Ian again. All I can think is his name over, and over, and over, and over, and one single word along with it:

 _Mine._

"Come back to me," I hear him whisper as he pulls me off the counter and steers me toward the bed. "Come back to me."

"Uh-huh," I answer.

That's it, that's our 'getting back together' talk.

 _We suck SO BAD at romance!_


	20. Making Deals

It's almost nine in the morning when I get home. Marcos is sitting at the table, two mugs and the coffee press in front of him. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot. He's not stupid.

 _Fuck._ I knew this conversation was coming, obviously, but I thought I'd have a minute to work up to it. Brace myself. I skulk-walk my ass to the table and sit down. "Tell me what you know, I'll tell you if you're right."

"You were with him," Marcos sighs, pouring two cups of coffee.

"Yes."

"You slept with him." He pushes one mug across the table toward me.

"Yes." I wrap my hands around the mug.

"You've _been_ sleeping with him."

"No!"

He gives this sad, scornful look that makes me wanna disappear.

"I haven't! I would nev-." I stop myself. I goddamn suck at phrasing things the right way, and I don't wanna make things any worse than they have to be by default. S _hit._ "Last night was the first time, Marcos. I promise. And I went over there thinking . . ." this is the part I really, _really_ need him to believe. "I was gonna tell him to leave, okay? I wanted to protect us!" It hurts to look at him, but I force myself do it. I've hurt him this bad, the least I could do is man up and look him in the eye.

He frowns as a tear falls down his face. "So, what, you're sorry? We work through this?"

Those questions have different answers.

"God, I'm _so sorry_ for hurting you, Marcos, but . . . there is no working through this. It's, it's . . . _fuck,"_ I growl through clenched teeth. It's hard to talk when I'm trying not to fuckin' dissolve into stupid, guilty tears. "It'll always come back to Ian." Honesty. That's also the least I owe him. "I love you _so much,_ but . . ."

Marcos holds up a hand and nods slowly, then takes a few sips of his coffee. "When do you return to the states?"

"Not sure." I answer. "But I . . . I do plan on coming back after the trial. I mean, dual citizenship is pretty much the key part of my deal."

"And _your man_ is okay with this?" I watch him cringe as he speaks. I can tell how much he hates feeling so bitter toward someone. Anyone.

 _He's such an amazing person._ This time a year ago no offer on earth coulda made me leave Marcos, and now I'm walking away for someone who's been out of my life for years? _I must be crazy._ I'm not second-guessing myself or anything, I just realize it's nuts.

"I haven't discussed specifics with Ian," I admit. "Not as far as a . . . 'larger plan' goes. But he does know what this town means to me." Suddenly I realize something important. It's a bit of a subject change, but I have to say it. "Please don't think I've spent our relationship wishing for Ian, and settling for you, that is not what fuckin' happened!"

Again, there's that _look._

"It's not!" A big part of me wants to reach out and grab his hands, but my gut says it'd be the wrong move. So I just keep talking. "I wouldn't trade one minute we've had together for anything, Marcos, I promise!" I take a deep breath to calm myself down and keep from crying. Marcos is the one with a right to be upset, not me. _"Everything_ woulda been different if Ian had stayed with me. I probably wouldn't have ever met Abuelo, and he's more family to me now than my own blood. So . . . yeah. Even aside from us, if I _could_ go back in time and change history, I wouldn't. It's all been way too good."

"But still you choose him now?" Marcos asks, worn out, wiping away tears.

I think back to the night before. Seeing Ian in the doorway, feeling so _furious_ and certain he had someone with him. The fucking incredible relief when I saw he was alone. Years apart or not, I just _need him_ on a different level than I'll ever need anyone else. Even Marcos. And I do love Marcos. _This breakup sucks._ I know I'm gonna need to spend a few days out on the water alone, to get my head clear.

"I do choose him now," I say in in a tiny, helpless voice. Like I'm a mouse. "It's all I can do, it's . . . I'm so-"

"Sorry," Marcos cuts me off. "You're _so sorry_ . . . yes, I believe you . . ."

"We ever gonna be friends?" I didn't mean to ask that question out loud, it's obviously the wrong fucking time, but I already miss him so much. It just slipped out.

"Friends?" Marcos mutters the word. "Friends . . . ? Eventually, I assume so." He takes a sip of coffee. "I tend to stay friendly with exes. After some time, of course."

"Right," I nod. "Yeah. Uh, In the meantime I'll, I'll get an apartment somewhere so Ian and I aren't right down the road from you."

"Appreciated." Marcos nods. Then he chuckles. "Make sure it's someplace chicken-friendly. Lady is going with you."

I text Abuelo on my way to the boat. I bring him up to speed on everything, and ask if he'll let Ian crash with him until I'm ready to come back. Then I text Ian to let him know what's going on.

I dock at night, but it's five days before I'm ready to face life on land again. I head straight to for Abuelo's house.

"What the hell, man?" I ask when I see Ian. He's playing with Diego in the front yard, and there's a big bruise on his cheek.

"Oh yeah," Ian laughs. "Alejandro punched me out on Marcos's behalf."

The old man is standing in the living room window, which is open.

"Is that so?"

Abuelo shrugs. "I support your choice, mijo, but any man who causes a breakup should at least take a punch to the face."

"Which I did." Ian smiles at me and points between himself and Alejandro. "We're fine now."

"You ready to take him apartment hunting?" Abuelo asks, holding up a newspaper. "I've been browsing options."

"We actually need to talk first." I look at Ian. "In private."

We go for a drive, and pull off into a dead end.

"What is it?" Ian asks as I take the keys out of the ignition.

"I realized something about us, you and me, while I was out on the water. And . . . I have a condition."

Ian frowns. "Condition?"

"For us being together." I say. "If you want us to have a future, there's something I need."

"If it's a sex thing, I'm down." He wags his eyebrows at me and comes in for a kiss, but I block him.

"No, it's-I'm serious, Ian. This is important to me!"

"Okay."

" _Really_ fucking important!"

"Okay!" he insists.

I don't know exactly how to say it. "You owe me a border crossing."

"Huh?"

"You don't leave Mexico until I can go with you. That's my condition. You stay with me."

"Mick, that could take a long time, and-"

"It takes what it fuckin' takes!" I shout. "I need this, okay? I need some goddamn evidence that you know how to stick by me when it's really, _really_ inconvenient and difficult."

"What?!" He's upset, but I knew he would be.

"Takin' off!" I yell, throwing my hands in the air. "That was your go-to move, Ian. When things with us weren't going your way? Poof! Gone! And I'm walkin' straight into serious shit now, so this time can't be like that, you got it?"

"It won't be-"

"Great, prove it!" I point to the ground beneath us. "You stay by my side. Until I can leave. No matter how long it takes."

"Christ Mickey, what if it's a whole year?"

"Then it's a whole year." I shrug. "We can find you work here, and help your family get guest visas if they wanna visit."

Ian looks down at his shoes, arms folded, lips pursed.

"I know, pain in the ass, but I got news for ya, pal," I lean close, watching every detail of his expression. "Things could end up pretty damn bad for us. Plea deals can be sticky, okay? There's a lotta technicalities and bullshit, so I may end up serving a year or two after all."

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and from the look on his face, you'd think this is the first time he's even considered the possibility.

"Yeah," I nod. "You could end up being an inmate's boyfriend for a while after all, Ian. Think you can handle that?" I don't wait for him to answer. "You think maybeyou'd fuckin' _visit me_ this time?" The question just hangs there like a loose thread. "Sorry, but I can't be with you if I can't count on you _,_ no matter how much this deal ends up sucking-which might be not at all," I tack on for clarity's sake. "We may end up getting everything we want, quick trial, I'm free, easy breezy, done." I brush my hands together. "But I gotta know for sure . . . worst case . . . ?"

Ian takes a deep breath, unfolds his arms, and slides his hands into mine. "I stay in Mexico until we can leave together? That's it?"

"That's all I need." I squeeze his hands tight and watch him chew his lip for what feels like an hour.

"Okay." He says finally, tossing his hands up. "I'll call work and quit today."

The last clenched ball of nervous fear in the pit of my gut dissolves, and I know it's safe to feel happy. I'm sure of it.

Ian rests his forehead against mine and chuckles. "Holy _fuck,_ Fiona's gonna shit a brick!"


	21. I Do

****edited to fix bizarre recurring typo****

It only takes three months to negotiate the terms of my surrender. We set an official date. I have two weeks to get my affairs in order, all my shit taken care of, then Ian and I will drive to the US Consulate where Agent Winston and a few other Feds will take me into custody. Oh, and my lead lawyer. Lady named Laura Denton. She's crazy hot, but brilliant as all fuck. I kinda hope my dad's attorneys dismiss her as a bimbo right off the bat, 'cause then it'll be even funnier watching her devour them. Seriously, this woman could eat big steel balls for breakfast! If you believe in all that spirit animal bullshit, hers is a charging rhinoceros.

I call a family-and-friends meeting in Abuelo's living room. I'm going to come out for the second time in my life. This time as a criminal. Everyone who knows me figured out pretty quick that I moved down here to get away from a shady past, but Marcos is the only one who knows _how shady._ Now I'm gonna tell them all everything. All the shit I did, what I'm gonna do now, and why, all the possible outcomes. It's a lot.

"Fuck, my palms won't stop sweating!" I whisper to Ian. We're in the hall at the foot of the stairs, listening to everyone show up and chat. They're all curious to know what's going on.

"You'll be fine, Mick." I've re-taken my first name, but I'm still done with Milkovich. Because fuck Terry, that's why. The name dies with him.

"Oh yeah?" I smoosh my sweaty hand into his face. "That feel _fine_ to you?"

"Asshole!" He sputters and swats me away.

"It's just . . . ugh, I really am not looking forward to this fuckin' conversation."

Ian puts his arms around my waist, and I lean into him. "Everyone in there loves you."

I scoff. "Yeah, they don't know I once looked at a woman I thought was dead, and chucked her body in a storage pod like she was just someone's beat up ol' bean-bag chair!"

"That was really specific." Ian smirks. I'm amazed he can _smirk_ at a time like this _._ "Besides, don't be a drama queen. No one actually died-"

I shake my head violently. He doesn't get it. "You don't get it, Ian! It's not just that I got convicted, it's that I _ran away._ You . . . you should hear some of Abuelo's opinions on cowards." When I say it out loud, it makes my stomach feels like I ate a bag of dog shit for breakfast.

Still, I can't help leaning into it when Ian kisses me. We have had a lot of legal stuff to deal with, meetings and shit, but outside of that the last four months have felt like . . . like we skipped getting married and went straight to the honeymoon. "Tell 'em you did it for love." He says with a grin. _The_ grin.

 _I swear to fuckin' god he knows what that grin does to me!_

"Or we could just duck out and skip the meeting," I suggest. It's possible my hands are heading for his ass when I make this suggestion.

"Nope!" Ian grabs my wrists and pushes me away. "Go!" He points in the direction of the living room. "Speak!" He pulls me through the arched entryway leading to the living room. "I'll be right here," he whispers before sitting down in one of the chairs Abuelo arranged around the room.

Through the window, I see Diego and Lula playing in the yard. They're gonna get a whole separate talk. I won't lie to the kids, but I'm not telling a seven and a five year old that their Tio's dad fucked and murdered a little girl. _I'll have to lean on Abuelo for advice there,_ I think. _That is if he's still speaking to me in ten minutes._

No one is shocked that I've spent time in prison. _Everyone_ is shocked that I broke out. Just like I figured, I do see a lotta disappointment and anger on Abuelo's face when I get to the worst details (hiding Sammi's 'dead' body, manipulating that guard woman, the escape, all that shit) and it _shreds me._ He raises his hat in the air, and stands up to speak, and for a second I'm fuckin' _sure_ he's gonna tell me to get the hell out of his house and never come back, but here's what he says instead:

"To choose good is harder, I think, when it is not taught in the home." He looks me dead in the eye. "It was not taught to you. You choose it now, and that is _character,_ mijo. Tienes un buen alma. Todos sabemos esto."

Hearing those words, especially from him is . . . fuck, I'm so relieved I go weak.

Ian must notice I'm wobbly, 'cause he stands up so I can clutch onto him. "What was that last part?" He whispers in my ear.

"They all know I have a good soul," I whisper back.

"What he said!" Ian points at Abuelo and smiles. "Yeah!"

Everyone laughs, and it breaks up the tension. I lean on Ian. It's a good thing the Feds picked him to bring me this offer, 'cause I sure as shit couldn't do it otherwise.

Everyone wants to know how soon I can come home.

I take a deep breath and shift from foot to foot. I hate this part. "I will have to serve more time." No one is a fan of that idea, but I wave my hands in the air until they shut up. "Look, they're commuting my original sentence, but if they let me walk with _zero_ jail time, it could hurt my credibility as a witness against my dad. Y'know," I try to explain, "like I'd do anything to avoid going back to prison, including lie for the state? Lo siento, los amo a todos pero él mató a un niño, he can't walk for that shit!" I know Ian's wondering, so I whisper in his ear ("I said I'm sorry, I love you all, but he killed a kid.")

No one's happy, but they all seem to get it. At least they stop pitching a fit.

"How long?" Abuelo asks.

"Three years, but I get credit for time served."

Ian takes my hand. "That leaves a year, four months, one week, and three days." Everyone grumbles and looks at each other. "But we are pushing to have most of it served on house arrest, so keep your fingers crossed!"

"Even if we don't get it, I'll be in a minimum security joint," I add. "That's _nuthin'_ after serious prison. Mi familia, trust me, the deal they're offering is more than fair." I see Ian cringe out of the corner of my eye. "It's fair." I'm speaking more to him than anyone else.

"I know," he sits down pulling me into his lap, and props his chin on my shoulder. "I just want a time machine so we can skip ahead."

"And miss the trial? No way!" I tilt Ian's face up and give him a little kiss. "Just picture the look on Terry's face when I take the stand. It's gonna be fuckin' gold!"

. . . And _fuckin' gold_ it is!

Chicago media gets ahold of the story, so a whole lotta cameras are pointed straight at my dad the day I'm escorted into court to testify. The flash of rage and hate on his face is tough to miss. _Hold on to your seat, old man!_ I think as the bailiff swears me in. _It gets better . . ._

"Please state your full name for the court," Ms. Denton says .

"Mikelio Alexander Gallagher."

"Not Milkovich?" She asks. When she called me up, she used Milkovich.

"Sorry. Yes, I was born a Milkovich, but I got married a few days ago and took my husband's last name."

 _There it is._ I'm not even looking at dad, but I can feel it. _Violent rage._ If he could fire bullets from his eyes, I'd be dead right now. I'm sure the jury can tell, it's not a subtle anger.

"My man is that redhead right there, front row." I nod toward Ian, and we wave at each other, grinning like we're on a fuckin' date.

"I see, congratulations," Denton smiles.

"Thank you,' I nod politely.

"Was your father aware of this relationship?"

"Objection," my dad's lawyer barks, "relevance?"

Ms. Denton urns to the judge. "Your honor the defendant has claimed _under oath_ that the worst he's ever done is throw a drunken punch or two in a bar. I believe the new Mr. Gallagher has evidence which disproves that claim, if the court will humor us for just a moment."

I smile. Calling me 'the new Mr. Gallagher' is a nice touch. It's on purpose, every word. We're going out of our way to shine a bright light on the gay, gay, GAAAAAAAAY of it all. Why bother? What _is_ the relevance? Well the thing is, Terry does look like a weary broken soul now, so he's easy to pity. Even I have a hard time looking at him and thinking 'killer.' We need to piss him the fuck off to show the jury who he really is. And if there's one thing we know he hates, it's the fact that he failed to beat, bully, or terrify the queer outta me. I. WIN. And I'm married. _Could life get any worse for you?_ I wonder as I try not to openly glare at my dad.

The judge looks and me and nods. "You may answer the question."

"Yeah, he was aware," I tell Ms. Denton. "He walked in on us having sex when we were seventeen. He then beat us up, held us at gunpoint, called a prostitute to the house, and . . ." I pause while the courtroom reacts to where the story is obviously heading. "He made Ian watch."

"Your husband?"

"Then boyfriend, yeah. Anyhow he told the hooker to, I think his exact words were, 'ride him 'til he likes it.' So she got on top of me and, uh . . . I just tried to get it over with fast."

Even though she's heard the story several times already, Denton looks genuinely upset. "I am so sorry that happened to you."

"Thank you, I appreciate it. Besides," I hold my left hand up high, so everyone can see the thick tungsten band around my ring finger. "Things worked out good, right?" I allow myself a quick glance at dad's table. Both fists balled up, and his face has gone from red to _purple_ he's so pissed. Even his lawyer looks nervous. "Using some poor hooker to rape me didn't change a thing."

"RAPE?!" Terry bellows.

"Order!" shouts the judge.

Dad jumps to his feet, and right away the suits on either side of him start trying to pull him down. "You got it up! You DID!" He yells, pointing at me. "You got it up with that _whore!"_

"Mr. Milkovich! Mr. Milkovich, please!"

 _I almost feel sorry for you,_ I think, watching his poor lawyers struggle to gain control of their angry man-child.

"Lyin' _faggot!"_ Terry grumbles as he lets the attorneys manhandle him back into the chair.

I'm not sure if the jury heard that last comment, but they sure as shit heard all the other stuff. Homophobic, andwoman-hating as a bonus. It's fuckin' _Christmas_. I wasn't entirely sure how 'play up the gay' was gonna work as a prosecution strategy, but _damn!_

I sit quietly until I'm sure Dad's outburst is over. "Did you have more questions, ?" I ask, smoothing down my tie like I'm all put together and above the macho bullshit.

We go over what little I remember about Shannon Leary, then focus mostly on how I helped the cops find her jewelry and finger bones two weeks ago. It took us days and days of going to several possible locations, all within this one specific part of town, and looking at a ton of old photographs, but I finally got it narrowed down to an area about the size of half a tennis court. The fact that cops _did_ find the taped-up container there, and it looked the way I'd described it? Those details pretty much _fuck_ Terry Milkovich.

Oh, also his fingerprints on the sticky side of the tape. That helped, too.

A few days after I give testimony Ian comes to visit. We sit together at a small round table, no glass barrier. We're even allowed to hug before sitting down, and hold hands across the table. No, we can't _snuggle_ or anything, but contact is contact. I'll take it. Minimum security prison is like living in a dormitory with slightly overbearing rules.

"Three months down already. Crazy, right?" I grin, running my thumb over his wedding ring. "We'll have this sentence knocked out before you know it."

"I think you're right."

I'm not sure what it is, but something about the tone of his voice sets off alarms in my head. _Something's up._

' _Ian . . ."_ I drum my fingers on the table. "Whatdid you do?"

"Oh no," he laughs and squeezes my hands. "You did it. This is aaaaaaaaaall you."

"Meaning what, fuckface?" I frown. I hate it when he's cryptic. And he loves being cryptic. _This is who you chose,_ I remind myself. Still, my gut tells me I should brace myself, so I do.


	22. Fuckin' Role Model

Y'know what the gay community does not have enough of? Role models. How do I know this? They've put _my ass_ on the list.

Me.

Shithead from the House of Milkovich.

Role.

Model.

What.

The.

FUCK?

It's youtube's fault. Apparently the news clip of my dad blowing up in court has been declared mandatory viewing for every loser, feelings-ridden, boner-for-social-justice faggot between the ages of birth and death. And going by the comments, me being in prison is the single most awful thing their teeny tiny fairy-brains can goddamn fathom.

Ian thinks it's hi _-larious._

The Warden does not.

"Aw, you gotta be fuckin' kidding me!" I say when a guard escorts me into a conference room across from the library. I can barely see the top of Warden Kilpatrick's shiny bald head over the pile of mail bags.

"No I am not fucking kidding you," he spits out, tossing one of the bags on the floor so he can glare directly at me. "Sit."

I pick the chair to his right.

"This nonsense is out of control, Mikelio."

"I realize that, sir."

"This is five days worth of mail. _FIVE!"_ He points an angry finger at the pile of bags. "And It's just the shit addressed to you, I'm getting letters as well. John Q. Citizen politely sharing the opinion that you don't belong here and it's my job to keep you tucked away safe in a hamster ball _or else."_

I bury my face in my hands. "Fuckin' gay men, I swear to Christ . . . "

"And you should see my inbox!"

"I am so, so sorry," I groan, pulling an envelope from one of the bags. It's covered in heart shaped rainbow stickers. "I'm gonna throw up." I look up at the guard standing by the door. "Would you mind pushing that trash can over here?"

"Aaaaaawww, are you not enjoying celebrity life, Milkovich?" He smirks. By blind dumb luck, this guy used to be a guard where I went to juvie. We didn't get along. Mostly 'cause I went out of my way to antagonize him, but still.

"It's Gallagher now," I remind him. "And how many times you gonna make me apologize, huh? You wanna answer all this fan mail and tell everyone what a fuckhead I been most of my life? Be my guest!" I insist. "Maybe then they'd leave me alone!" He looks away. I think deep, deep, deep down he respects me a little bit, but he owes me some torture. Hell, at least he's holding me responsible for my own fucking actions, which is more than I can say for Idiot Nation. I turn back to the Warden. "So what's this meeting about? Or did you just not wanna dump all this off at my cell?"

"Well inmate," Kilpatrick opens up the laptop in front of him and cracks his knuckles. "You are gonna help me sort through all these interview requests and decide which ones to approve."

"Pfft, zero!" I scoff. "Okay, nice chat," I start to get up, but Warden puts a hand on my shoulder and I freeze.

"Sit. Down." I get the sense it's either I give interviews, or this guy smothers me to death in my sleep.

In the end I agree to three interviews a day four days a week. Kilpatrick wants to grant me a temporary reprieve from work detail as well, but I know how much shit I'd catch from the other inmates if that happened, so I talk him out of it. The internet may have voted me Fag Of The Month, but to the guys in here I'm just another asshole with time to serve.

Later that night I'm allowed to call Ian. "Quit laughing! Quit it! Would y-it's not fuckin' funny!"

"I'm _literally_ on the floor right now!" he wheezes into the phone.

"I hate you." I hold the phone away from my ear as the obnoxious laughing continues. "Look dipshit, I actually called to tell you something else!"

"What's that?" He finally calms down enough to _listen._

"A coupla youtube channels wanted on-camera interviews, and I was gonna make Kilpatrick turn 'em down flat, but guess what a smart guy you married?"

"How smart?"

"I got him . . . to agree . . . " I pause for dramatic effect and fiddle with the phone cord. " . . . to give us four hours every Saturday in the . . . well," I roll my eyes, "they call it the 'family trailer,' but we all call it the fuck house."

I swear to god I can _hear_ Ian sit up and get serious. "For real?"

"Mmhm." Those trailers are in high demand, for obvious reasons, so we've been lucky to score the grand total of two visits we've had thus far. A standing Saturday Date is gonna be _amazing._

A week later I'm seated across from a wispy, bleach-blonde, glitter-boy as he sets up his equipment.

"What's the name of this channel again?" I ask.

"Robbie's Queer Corner," he says softly with a blinding white-toothed smile. "I'm Robbie."

"Ah. Okay." I'm squirming in my seat, I already feel so fuckin' awkward. "Look, just so you know _Robbie,_ the only reason I agreed to do this interview is I miss sucking my husband's dick."


	23. Working Hard

**[It's the day of Mickey and Ian's conjugal visit. Mickey is not great at being patient.]**

Noon to 4 p.m. is our timeslot. So of course Saturday morning I'm eyes-wide-open at 6 a.m. trying not to count the seconds. By 7, I'm doing math.

 _60 seconds in a minute, times 60 minutes in an hour, that's 3,600; times 5 hours 'til noon, that's 18,000 seconds until I see Ian . . . 17,997 . . . 17,800 . . . 17,700. STOP IT!_

I get up and do push-ups. Curl-ups. More push-ups. Try going back to sleep. Fail. Try reading, fuckin' fail at that too. Get up and pace.

 _16,300 seconds. Write letters. You haven't written Abuelo all week. That'll eat up the 16,296 seconds 'til you're with Ian . . . taking his pants off . . . turning around . . . he'll either bend you over something or go for the bed, whatever . . ._ like I'm reminding myself how to fuck. Our last conjugal was two months ago, so I'm crawling outta my skin here.

 _15,400 seconds._

The food here may suck, but eating breakfast gives me something to focus on. It's a task. So I eat slow to burn up more time.

"Good morning Wonder Queer," my friend Brian chirps way too cheerfully as he drops his tray on the table.

"Morning," I grumble around a mouthful of scrambled 'egg.' Choking down eggs made from dehydrated powder stuff was easier in my juvie days, back before I knew what a fresh-laid egg tastes like. _I should call Abuelo and check in on Lady._ I miss that stupid chicken.

"I gotta ask," Brian says with a sneer, "is there a made for TV movie in the works yet?"

"There better fuckin' not be!" Just the thought makes me gag.

"You'd get paid for the rights though, wouldn't you?" He asks. "It'd be money."

I throw a grape across the table. "Do I look like a whore to you?"

"I mean . . ."

I throw a few more grapes. He bats them back at me, and we go on eating in silence. "I am gettin' laid today, though," I smile around a mouthful of disgusting egg.

"Fuck house?" He asks. "Or have you picked out a prison bitch?"

"Four hours with Ian, man." If my smile gets any bigger my face might split in half, but I can't help it. "He'll be here at noon."

"Nice." Brian sighs. "I gotta save up another two hundred somethin' merit points before I've got enough to cash in for a solid family weekend."

I ask him why he doesn't just go for day visits.

"I like waking the girls up in the morning and watching them do their little breakfast routine." He smiles into the distance like I've got something nice hovering just over my shoulder. "That's the whole point of those trailers, right? Some normalcy?"

I tell him Ian and I are only getting four hour blocks, but it's gonna be _every Saturday._

"Whatever floats your boat, I guess." Brian shrugs. "Marci loves making us big family dinners every Friday night, then the girls pick out a board game or a card game, so . . . yeah," he shakes his head and shovels a mouthful of oatmeal into his face. "I'd rather save up for overnight stays."

Maybe if Ian and I had kids together I'd feel the same, but as it is we're just newly married and horny. My priority is maximum full-contact private time.

Brian keeps talking about his kids, and I wonder what Yevgenny's up to these days. _He'd be in kindergarten now, right? Or first grade? Can't be second grade yet, can it . . . ?_ I don't even remember his exact birthdate. I mean, I can narrow it down to three guesses, and one of them is definitely right, but I'd be lyin' if I said I was sure. I don't _not_ love the kid, but when it came down to a choice between letting Svet kick Ian outta my house or pushing her ass out the door instead, I was fine with watching her take the baby and moe. My priority was keeping Ian close, which doesn't seem like a 'dad' thing to do. One of the many reasons I doubt a paternity test would actually match me to Yev. Last time I saw the kid he was _blonde_ for fuck's sake. No one is my family is _blonde._ Anyhow, Svet always put Yev first, like a good parent, so I'm sure wherever he is he's doing fine. Can't say I'm worried.

What I am worried about is getting enough alone time with my husband to _feel_ like a married couple. We had one 24 hour conjugal when we got married, a few days before I testified, then a second one two months ago. Sure, serving the rest of my sentence is only gonna be a tiny fraction of the rest of our lives together, but I'm horny _NOW_ goddamnit!

 _. . . 7,200 seconds . . . 3,600 seconds . . . 1,800 seconds . . . 60 seconds . . . 10, 9, 8 . . ._

The last seconds of countdown are wild. I'm staring at the trailer door as we get closer and closer, and it's like the guard escorting me doesn't even exist. Him or anything else, actually. The whole fuckin' world is white noise. On the other side of that door is Ian and it's getting unlocked in _3 . . . 2 . . . 1._

What I told that Youtube Robbie guy? About wanting to suck my husband's cock? Yeah, I really fucking meant it, so I'm on my knees before the guard even has time to shut the door behind us. _What?_ I think as I hear his annoyed, huffy sound. _It's a conjugal trailer, dumb-bucket! You try months of abstinence and see how well your manners hold up!_

"Horny much?" Ian chuckles as the door locks with a loud _click_.

I stop working on his belt and look up. "Nah you're right, we should recite poetry to each other first."

"Damn, I forgot to write any," he smiles, running his fingers through my hair.

"No shit? Me too!" I go back to undoing his belt. He doesn't stop me. _I hope I'm still good at this . . ._

I assume sucking cock is like riding a bike, and you don't really _forget_ how to do it, but two months is the longest I've gone without blowing anyone since . . . well, it's pretty easy to find a guy willing to stick his dick someplace, especially when there's cocaine and/or prison involved. Point being is I've stayed _in practice,_ but Ian and I talked it over before we got married, and we agreed. No extracurricular partners allowed without advance discussion, and the need would have to be really fuckin' dire. Like, blue balls from _hell_ dire. I don't know how much Ian would care, honestly, but I'm that rare breed of homo who'd rather keep things between me and my partner.

. . . _I am still good at this,_ I think as Ian goes from semi to fully hard in my hand, and I close my mouth around the tip of him, sucking gently.

"Missed you," he sighs.

"Mmhmm."

I'm only on my knees for a few minutes before Ian pulls me to my feet. He's flushed, breathing hard, pawing at me, it's fucking _beautiful._

"Bed," Ian pants against my mouth while I'm trying to kiss him. "Where the fuck's the bed?"

"Like five steps that way!" I grab the idiot by the shirt and start steering him backward. "Try opening your eyes, maybe?"

It's a quick, clumsy trip to the mattress, and Ian turns us around halfway there so I land first, pulling him down on top of me. I do wanna get his shirt the hell out of my way, but the weight of him feels so good I pause for a second and just . . . hold on. Kinda swaying. _Girl!_

Ian nips my earlobe. "Four hours isn't forever," he reminds me.

I chuckle and lift up my hips so he can pull off my prison jumpsuit the rest of the way. I won't let him leave the bed to take his pants off, so those take a little bit of squirming to get rid of, but eventually they're kicked to the side and forgotten along with the rest of our clothes.

"Can we just stay here 'til my sentence is up?" I whine, kissing every part of his chest I can get to as he reaches down to stroke me. _Two months,_ I think, closing my eyes, loving the feel of his hand. _Two fuckin' months of doing this solo._ Jerking off is one thing, it gets the job done, but it's all a thousand times better when I don't have to _imagine_ it's Ian's hand instead of my own. Being able to touch him and hear him breathe while _his hand_ strokes me, back and forth, medium pace? There's no fucking comparison. The stroke speeds up, and speeds up. I'm rocking my hips, arching my back, breathing harder and harder.

"Lube in nightstand?" He asks.

"Sorry, budget cuts." I shrug.

"Smartass." He jabs me in the side and reaches for the drawer a few feet away.

We scuttle to the middle of the bed.

He's kneeling between my legs. "Been a while."

"Mmhm," I nod, trying not to squirm. His ego is healthy enough as it is, I refuse to beg. The guy takes his sweet time nuzzling and kissing all _around_ my cock. Abdomen, hips, thighs. Close but not quite there. "Oh, you _suck!"_ I rasp, trying not to shudder visibly.

"I mean I could," he says with _the grin_.

 _Fuck you, gingershit!"_ I grab his hair and thrust. _Ha!_ "Oooooooooh," I sigh as he cooperates and gets to work without missing a beat. "Nice," I whisper. He's chosen a challenging, athletic pace. _"R_ _eally_ nice . . ." it's less than a minute before two slick fingers press into me. _This is it,_ I think as he slides deeper. _This is what nothing else replaces . . ._

I open my eyes and look around the room, imagining _our stuff_ there. Our pictures on the wall, our coats on the coat rack, my million year old cast iron pan on the stove. I even imagine hearing Lady cluck outside the window. For now just being able to fuck is enough, but I'm constantly praying the courts will let me start house arrest soon. Or soon-ish, at least. I don't wanna be counting down seconds every Saturday by this time next year.

I don't have to let Ian know when I'm ready for cock. He knows.

I flip over and brace myself, arm wrapped around a pillow. _"Mm . . ."_ I feel his mouth starting at the base of my spine, and his hands move up my back. _"Fuck,_ I miss this."

"Me too," he mumbles against my skin.

His mouth is warm, and wet, and soft, and so fucking _slow_ on it's way up my spine. _This has to be driving him nuts._ Finally I feel his teeth graze my shoulder and the curve of my neck, and I know it's any second . . . any second . . .

His left hand slides over mine and holds on tight. The _clink_ of wedding rings is still new, and feeling them slide together is like . . . it's a crazy goddamn thrill. A reminder that there's a whole life for us after this prison bullshit is over. That prison's just a blip.

I grit my teeth and moan as he starts to thrust. It's slow and cautious for the first ten seconds. _Maybe_ ten.

I love having a partner who reads my style. I've never had to explain a damn thing to Ian where sex is concerned. Not even the first time. _He gets that I'm a bottom for a reason,_ I think as the mattress starts lurching along with us. _I like getting FUCKED._ Straight sex was the only time I ever topped by choice (I don't count juvie sex), and staying hard always meant I'd have to imagine a nice big cock in my ass. Every time I'd cum thinking about a guy grabbing me, holding on tight, and just . . . Going. To. Town! In other words, doing _exactly_ what Ian did to me our first time together.

 _No wonder I couldn't stay away from him._ I'm not stupid, I know it was the sex that kept me coming back long enough to fall in love, even though that was hands down the worst possible thing I could think of happening in my life. Falling in love with a dude. At least five times a year I'd have this conversation with myself: _Okay, meet him someplace today, doesn't matter where, fuck one last time, and then don't ever call him again. EVER. Got it Milkovich? It's over._

Now here we are. On the same page in every sense, with rings and a legal certificate to prove it. All because Teenage Mick had the self control of a rabbit.

"Ah! Ah! Ah! _AH!"_ Ian chants in my ear, kinda groaning each syllable.

We're both close.

I move into a bent-over squat position and clutch the pillow tighter as my forehead pushes into the crook of my arm.

"Aaaaaawwww, _fuck!"_ I gasp, breathing hard as Ian grips my shoulder, and I feel him start to cum. "Oh fuck yeah! Ian! Ian,Ian, _Ian!"_ The heat of him inside me feels amazing, and I can't shut up.

He's all kinds of loud while it happens, too. Groaning, yelling my name. Not a lotta words besides my name, mostly just noise, but it's great. Just fucking fantastic _._

 _I'll be replaying these sounds in my head for weeks!_ I think. Then I remember that we're gonna get the trailer again next Saturday, and the Saturday after that, and so-on, and I lose my goddamn mind. Cum like a maniac.

Everything goes dim and hazy in the afterglow, and we're quiet. My back is flush against his chest, and I bring his arm around me. "Hi," I whisper when he nuzzles my throat.

"Hi."

"How much time do we have left?"

"Um . . . " He turns around to check the clock on the wall behind us. "Three hours and forty-eight minutes."

"Wow," I laugh. "Should we be proud of ourselves, or really fuckin' embarassed?"

Ian giggles. _I love his giggle, it's so stupid!_

"With what we've been through? Damn, Mickey, I'm glad I didn't shoot my load when I saw the doorknob turning!"

"Oh really?"

He throws a leg over mine so I'm basically cocooned in him. "You gotta get on your lawyers about that house arrest thing, okay?" He props himself up enough to kiss me. "Let's make that happen ASAP."

"Well," I smile and squirm until I'm laying on my back. "Half the internet believes I should be carried around on a satin pillow. Whaddaya think, babe? Should we weaponize public opinion?"

"Oh, fuck yeah!" He nods enthusiastically. "I'll even get a twitter account! Let's put those hashtag morons to work!"


	24. A house A family A book?

My cell has turned into a mini office. I've turned my cellmate into an admin assistant. He doesn't like it, but it's either that or I piss on his mattress whenever I gotta go, so he does the work. I print shit out at the library, he keeps it organized. Maintains a daily to-do list. Minimum security prison, man. It's a whole different universe than my time in the MAX.

Ian tries to teach me how hashtags work, but I don't get that shit _at all._ Besides, there is limited internet access in the library so inmates can work their legal stuff and do college courses and stuff, but it's all super restricted. Lotta filters. Which is fine. I wouldn't trust these assholes with the wide open internet either, they're dangerous fuckin' criminals. So anyhow, Ian takes point on the _'social media presence'_ of my case. I just handle a few weekly phone interviews and shit. And the handful of vloggers Kilpatrick lets through the gate.

One thing that happens almost right the fuck away is a buncha twitter morons thinking I want off the hook. Y'know walk outta here free as a fuckin' bird and get on with life as usual.

 _Nope._

So I end up repeating some version of this speech half a dozen times:

"I should absolutely serve my entire sentence, okay? I broke laws. You got no idea the shit I got away with before. I ripped people off all the time, man! We ain't tryin'a to get me off the hook, we just think house arrest is a better idea all around. It's still ARREST. I wouldn't be able to leave my front porch, and a bunch of other restrictions would apply, but the thing is right now y'got the state paying for my room and board, and three square meals a day. Plus with all the media attention since I testified against my dad, it's a pain in the Warden's ass too, and the poor mailroom guys are just gettin' buried. So? Kick my ass into a house, problem fuckin' solved. Still restricted freedom, but my husband and I are the the ones paying to keep me fed and the heaters running.

Another thing I gotta shut down is smack talking this prison in general. _It's prison, fuckbrains._ For every hundred inmates here screamin' that they're innocent, maybe two are telling the truth. _Maybe._ The rest of 'em _should be_ choking down stale white bread and government cheese every day. And maybe I'm just too used to prison etiquette, but even the blowjob economy in here is pretty reasonable. Don't wanna be forced to suck dick? Maybe quit robbing convenience stores. Just a thought. The prison system has its issues for sure, especially up in MAX, but I got no fuckin' patience for whiny-ass college students who think it should run like a four star hotel you just can't check out of. I mean, _Christ!_

The system doesn't make a habit of rolling over and giving scumbag criminals what we want, so even with all the public support it's a long shot. I'm pretty sure the District Attorney would love to gut me like a fish. _(I really miss fishing . . . )._ And I doubt the D.A.s office has any intention of giving in, but then Shannon Leary's parents get involved. Beyond my 'abused gayboy' testimony, if I hadn't lead cops to the container with Shannon's finger bones and my dad's prints on the tape, he woulda walked. No question. So what if I could prove he's a horrible fuckin' human, without the actual container in evidence, the state's case was weak as hell.

Anyhow, point is, Shannon's parents think I'm a goddamn saint. Like, they're straight up _pissed_ I'm serving any time at all, and they're both fuckin' retired, so they got nuuuuuuthin' but time on their hands to make calls, write letters, show up at offices, all that shit. I've never met old people with so much energy. Have you ever watched an old woman cry on the news about her dead, murdered daughter? The state grants me house arrest _real fast._

There are a shit ton of restrictions. There can't be more than four people in the house at one time. No one with a criminal history can set foot on the property (except Ian, and that's only because we're married). No one can stay the night. Ian and I both have to account for every dime the household spends, I guess to prove we're not secretly buying guns or coke or some shit. We can only have one bottle of wine or six pack of beer in the fridge at any given time, no hard liquor at all. House inspections at any time, at least two a month. I'm not allowed to have my own phone or social media accounts until my sentence is up. Ian's phone has unrestricted internet access, but the one and only laptop allowed in the house has a ton of filters. The closest thing to a weapon I'm allowed to touch is a cooking knife. If a state inspector found so much as a fuckin' _slingshot_ under my bed, I'd be in trouble. If we want to plant anything in the yard, it has to be approved first (Poisonous plant concerns? I dunno.) There's a bunch of little technicalities, and a lot of 'em are _weird._ We keep a list of the strangest ones taped to the fridge.

Wearing real clothes is good. Eating real food is good. A private bathroom is good. Spending every night with Ian is _great._ If letting a cop punch me in the face every day was a condition of house arrest, I'd still fuckin' take it and say thank you!

I get approved for a boring-ass data entry job, which helps me and Ian build up our savings for a delayed honeymoon. We figure since we're having to wait so long, we should go all out. Take the Vida Tranquila and sail up and down the coastline for a few months. I miss the water so much, it's stupid.

"We could even trade in your boat for something bigger," Ian suggests one evening as we're being lazy in the living room. "Less industrial, more luxury?"

"Like a yacht?" I ask, frowning.

"One of the smaller ones," he shrugs, like that makes it reasonable. "With trade in value on the Tranquila plus our savings? And Abuelo keeps begging to pitch in a little-"

"He _is not_ spending his money on us!" The old man and I have had this argument several times, it's getting fuckin' annoying.

Ian rolls his eyes. "Family _usually_ pitches in on weddings and honeymoons, Mickey, it's normal."

I can't even make the argument that Alejandro isn't our family because, _shit._ I call him Abuelo for fuck's sake. Diego and Lula's artwork is on our fridge. They're family.

"Are you allergic to normalcy?" Ian asks. "Does it give you hives?"

"It might. I wouldn't know, I've never had it."

"Not true," he points out. "You and Marcos had a few good years of normal domestic life."

"Yeah, while I was living as a fugitive under an assumed name!" I fire back.

"Which Marcos knew, and handled fine, because he loved you. And my point is that you were good at normal life." He closes his laptop, gets up from his chair, and walks over to the couch, tossing an arm over my shoulder as he sits. "My _other point_ is that we went through a lotta shit as a couple to get here, _dumbass,_ and we deserve a fucking awesome honeymoon!" He scoots close and gets me trapped in that 'Sincere Ian Stare' I have an embarrassing track record of falling for. "I don't care if we're on a boat or in the fuckin' desert, Mickey. I will skydive with you, I will climb mountains, I will do whatever. I just wanna celebrate the fact that we did _this."_ he holds his left hand in front of my face and wiggles his ring finger, "in the biggest fucking way possible."

First thing that happens is my stomach flips over like it did when we were kids. Second thing is I get nervous 'cause there's this _smile_ on Ian's face that keeps getting bigger, and I don't trust it at all. _The punk is up to something._

"If you really don't wanna take Abuelo's money . . ."

 _Oh no,_ I think as he gets his phone out of his pocket.

I watch him open up his email.

"There's always these book deal offers!" He jumps off the couch and waves the phone at me like we're playing a game of keep-away.

"NO!" I shout. "Fuck you! Fuck! You!" I chase him around the coffee table, behind the armchair, into the kitchen. "Ian, you better not have accepted any-"

"Of course not!" He says, breathless as his back hits the fridge. "But the offers are there."

The chase is over. He holds the phone out in front of him and I grab it.

I'm looking at an inbox folder labeled _'offers.'_

"Honestly, I haven't read 'em all," he says, pushing off the fridge and cradling his hand over mine. "But there they are." He grins, and for the second time today my stomach flips over. "Wanna pop some popcorn and go through 'em?"

Just a quiet evening at home reading book offers while under house arrest. Yeah, my life is totally fuckin' normal.


End file.
